*     I  •  I 
E  :  ••• 


ARY  GARY 


-  KATE  - 
LANGLEY 
BOSHER 


IN  MEMORIAM 

GEORGE  HOLMES  HOWISON 


N 


THEY       DIDN'T      MEET      AT      ALL      LIKE      I       EXPECTED 


MARY  GARY 

-FREQUENTLY    MARTHA" 


BY 

KATE    LANGLEY    BOSHER 


FRONTISPIECE      BY 
FRANCES    ROGERS 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON        .'.        MCMX 


Copyright,  1910,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 

All  rights  reserved 


Published  February,  1910 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


0 


TO 
VIRGINIA 


881073 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  AN  UNTHANKFUL  ORPHAN i 

II.  THE  COMING  OF  Miss  KATHERINE  ....  14 

III.  MARY,  FREQUENTLY  MARTHA 27 

IV.  THE  STEPPED-ON  AND  THE  STEPPERS  ...  39 

V.  "HERE  COMES  THE  BRIDE!" 50 

VI.  "MY  LADY  OF  THE  LOVELY  HEART"  ...  61 

VII.  "STERILIZED  AND  FERTILIZED" 70 

VIII.  MARY  GARY'S  BUSINESS 75 

IX.  LOVE  is  BEST 85 

X.  THE  REAGAN  BALL 97 

XI.  FINDING  OUT 103 

XII.  A  TRUE  MIRACLE 120 

XIII.  His  COMING 133 

XIV.  THE  HURT  OF  HAPPINESS 141 

XV.  A  REAL  WEDDING 155 


MARY    GARY 


MARY   GARY 


AN   UNTHANKFUL   ORPHAN 

Y  name  is  Mary  Gary.  I  live  in  the 
Yorkburg  Female  Orphan  Asylum. 
You  may  think  nothing  happens  in 
an  Orphan  Asylum.  It  does.  The 
orphans  are  sure  enough  children,  and 
real  much  like  the  kind  that  have 
Mothers  and  Fathers;  but  though  they  don't 
give  parties  or  wear  truly  Paris  clothes,  things 
happen,  and  that's  why  I  am  going  to  write 
this  story. 

To-day  I  was  kept  in.  Yesterday,  too.  I 
don't  mind,  for  I  would  rather  watch  the  light 
ning  up  here  than  be  down  in  the  basement 
with  the  others.  There  are  days  when  I  love 
thunder  and  lightning.  I  can't  flash  and  crash, 
being  just  Mary  Gary ;  but  I'd  like  to,  and  when 
it  is  done  for  me  it  is  a  relief  to  my  feelings. 

i 


GARY 

The  reason  I  was  kept  in  was  this.  Yester 
day  Mr.  Gaffney,  the  one  with  a  sunk  eye  and 
cold  in  his  head  perpetual,  came  to  talk  to  us 
for  the  benefit  of  our  characters.  He  thinks 
it's  his  duty,  and,  just  naturally  loving  to  talk, 
he  wears  us  out  once  a  week  anyhow.  Yes 
terday,  not  agreeing  with  what  he  said,  I 
wouldn't  pretend  I  did,  and  I  was  punished 
prompt,  of  course. 

I  don't  care  for  duty-doers,  and  I  tried  not 
to  listen  to  him;  but  tiresome  talk  is  hard  not 
to  hear — it  makes  you  so  mad.  Hear  him  I  did, 
and  when,  after  he  had  ambled  on  until  I 
thought  he  really  was  castor -oil  and  I  had 
swallowed  him,  he  blew  his  nose  and  said: 

"You  have  much,  my  children,  to  be  thankful 
for,  and  for  everything  you  should  be  thank 
ful.  Are  you?  If  so,  stand  up.  Rise,  and 
stand  upon  your  feet." 

I  didn't  rise.  All  the  others  did — stood  on 
their  feet,  just  like  he  asked.  None  tried  their 
heads.  I  was  the  only  one  that  sat,  and  when 
he  saw  me,  his  sunk  eye  almost  rolled  out,  and 
his  good  eye  stared  at  me  in  such  astonishment 
that  I  laughed  out  loud.  I  couldn't  help  it, 
I  truly  couldn't. 

I'm  not  thankful  for  everything,  and  that's 


AN   UNTHANKFUL   ORPHAN 

why  I  didn't  stand  up.  Can  you  be  thankful 
for  toothache,  or  stomachache,  or  any  kind  of 
ache?  You  cannot.  And  not  meant  to  be, 
either. 

The  room  got  awful  still,  and  then  presently 
he  said: 

"Mary  Gary  " — his  voice  was  worse  than  his 
eye — ' '  Mary  Gary,  do  you  mean  to  say  you  have 
not  a  thankful  heart?"  And  he  pointed  his 
ringer  at  me  like  I  was  the  Jezebel  lady  come 
to  life. 

I  didn't  answer,  thinking  it  safer,  and  he 
asked  again: 

"Do  I  understand,  Mary  Gary" — and  by 
this  time  he  was  real  red-in-the-face  mad — "do 
I  understand  you  are  not  thankful  for  all  that 
comes  to  you?  Do  I  understand  aright?" 

"Yes,  sir,  you  understand  right,"  I  said, 
getting  up  this  time.  "I  am  not  thankful  for 
everything  in  my  life.  I'd  be  much  thank- 
fuller  to  have  a  Mother  and  Father  on  earth 
than  to  have  them  in  heaven.  And  there  are 
a  great  many  other  things  I  would  like  differ 
ent."  And  down  I  sat,  and  was  kept  in  for 
telling  the  truth. 

Miss  Bray  says  it  was  for  impertinence  (Miss 
Bray  is  the  Head  Chief  of  this  Institution), 

3 


MARY   GARY 

but  I  didn't  mean  to  be  impertinent.  I  truly 
didn't.  Speaking  facts  is  apt  to  make  trouble, 
though — also  writing  them.  To-day  Miss  Bray 
kept  me  in  for  putting  something  on  the  black 
board  I  forgot  to  rub  out.  I  wrote  it  just  for 
my  own  relief,  not  thinking  about  anybody  else 
seeing  it.  What  I  wrote  was  this: 

"Some  people  are  crazy  all  the  time; 
All  people  are  crazy  sometimes." 

That's  why  I'm  up  in  the  punishment-room 
to-day,  and  it  only  proves  that  what  I  wrote  is 
right.  It's  crazy  to  let  people  know  you  know 
how  queer  they  are.  Miss  Bray  takes  personal 
everything  I  do,  and  when  she  saw  that  black 
board,  up-stairs  she  ordered  me  at  once.  She 
loves  to  punish  me,  and  it's  a  pleasure  I  give 
her  often. 

I  brought  my  diary  with  me,  and  as  I  can't 
write  when  anybody  is  about,  I  don't  mind 
being  by  myself  every  now  and  then.  Miss 
Bray  don't  know  this,  or  my  punishment  would 
take  some  other  form. 

I  just  love  a  diary.  You  see,  its  something 
you  can  tell  things  to  and  not  get  in  trouble. 
When  writing  in  it  I  can  relieve  my  feelings  by 
saying  what  I  think,  which  Miss  Katherine  says 

4 


AN   UNTHANKFUL   ORPHAN 

is  risky  to  do  to  people,  and  that  it's  safer  to 
keep  your  feelings  to  yourself.  People  don't 
really  care  about  them,  and  there's  nothing 
they  get  so  tired  of  hearing  about.  A  diary 
doesn't  talk,  neither  do  animals;  but  a  diary 
understands  better  than  animals,  and  you  can 
call  things  by  their  right  name  in  a  book  which 
it  isn't  safe  to  do  out  loud,  even  to  a  dog. 

I  know  I  am  not  unthankful,  and  I  would 
much  rather  have  a  Father  and  Mother  on 
earth  than  to  have  them  in  heaven,  but  I  guess 
I  should  have  kept  my  preferences  to  myself. 
Somehow  preferences  seem  to  make  people  mad. 

But  a  Mother  and  Father  in  heaven  are  too 
far  away  to  be  truly  comforting.  I  like  the 
people  I  love  to  be  close  to  me.  I  guess  that 
is  why,  when  I  was  little,  I  used  to  hold  out  my 
arms  at  night,  hoping  my  Mother  would  come 
and  hold  me  tight.  But  she  never  came,  and 
now  I  know  it's  no  use. 

There  are  a  great  many  things  that  are  no 
use.  One  is  in  telling  people  what  they  don't 
want  to  know.  I  found  that  out  almost  two 
years  ago,  when  I  wasn't  but  ten.  The  way 
I  found  out  was  this. 

One  morning,  it  was  an  awful  cold  morning, 
Miss  Bray  came  into  the  dining-room  just  as 

5 


MARY   GARY 

we  were  taking  our  seats  for  breakfast,  and  she 
looked  so  funny  that  everybody  stared,  though 
nobody  dared  to  even  smile  visible.  All  the 
children  are  afraid  of  Miss  Bray;  but  at  that 
time  I  hadn't  found  out  her  true  self,  and,  not 
thinking  of  consequences,  I  jumped  up  and  ran 
over  to  her  and  whispered  something  in  her  ear. 

"What!"  she  said.  "What  did  you  say?" 
And  she  bent  her  head  so  as  to  hear  better. 

"You  forgot  one  side  of  your  face  when  fix 
ing  this  morning,"  I  said,  still  whispering,  not 
wanting  the  others  to  hear.  "Only  one  side  is 
pink — "  But  I  didn't  get  any  further,  for  she 
grabbed  my  hand  and  almost  ran  with  me  out 
of  the  room. 

"You  piece  of  impertinence!"  she  said,  and 
her  eyes  had  such  sparks  in  them  I  knew  my 
judgment -day  had  come.  "You  little  piece 
of  impertinence!  You  shall  be  punished  well 
for  this."  I  was.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  im 
pertinent.  I  thought  she'd  like  to  know.  I 
thought  wrong. 

I  loathe  Miss  Bray.  The  very  sight  of  her 
shoulders  in  the  back  gets  me  mad  all  over 
without  her  saying  a  word,  and  everything  in 
me  that's  wrong  comes  right  forward  and 
speaks  out  when  she  and  I  are  together.  She 

6 


AN   UNTHANKFUL   ORPHAN 

thinks  she  could  run  this  earth  better  than  it's 
being  done,  and  she  walks  like  she  was  the 
Superintendent  of  most  of  it.  But  I  could 
stand  that.  I  could  stand  her  cheeks,  and  her 
frizzed  front,  and  a  good  many  other  things; 
but  what  I  can't  stand  is  her  passing  for  being 
truthful  when  she  isn't.  She  tells  stories,  and 
she  knows  I  know  it ;  and  from  the  day  I  found 
it  out  I  have  stayed  out  of  her  way ;  and  were 
she  the  Queen  of  Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa,  and 
the  United  States  I'd  want  her  to  stand  out  of 
mine.  I  truly  would. 

Her  outrageousest  story  I  heard  her  tell  my 
self.  It  was  over  a  year  ago,  and  we  were  in 
the  room  where  the  ladies  were  having  a 
Board  meeting.  I  had  come  in  to  bring  some 
water,  and  had  a  waiter  full  of  glasses  in  my 
hands,  and  was  just  about  to  put  them  on  the 
table  when  I  heard  Miss  Bray  tell  her  Lie. 
That's  what  she  did.  She  Lied! 
Those  glasses  never  touched  that  table. 
My  hands  lost  their  hold,  and  down  they  came 
with  a  crash.  Every  one  smashed  to  smith 
ereens,  and  I  standing  staring  at  Miss  Bray. 
The  way  she  told  her  story  was  this.  The 
Board  deals  us  out  for  adoption,  and  that 
morning  they  were  discussing  a  request  for 

7 


MARY   GARY 

Pinkie  Moore,  and,  as  usual,  Miss  Bray  didn't 
want  Pinkie  to  go.  You  see,  Pinkie  was  very 
useful.  She  did  a  lot  of  disagreeable  things  for 
Miss  Bray,  and  Miss  Bray  didn't  want  to  lose 
her.  And  when  Mrs.  Roane,  who  is  the  only 
Board  lady  truly  seeing  through  her,  asked,  real 
sharplike,  why  Pinkie  shouldn't  go  this  time, 
Miss  Bray  spoke  out  like  she  was  really  grieved. 
"I  declare,  Mrs.  Roane,"  she  said — and  she 
twirled  her  keys  round  and  round  her  fingers, 
and  twitched  the  nostril  parts  of  her  nose 
just  like  a  horse — "I  declare,  Mrs.  Roane,  I 
hate  to  tell  you,  I  really  do.  But  Pinkie  Moore 
wouldn't  do  for  adoption.  She  has  a  terrible 
temper,  and  she's  so  slow  nobody  would  keep 
her.  And  then,  too"  —  her  voice  was  the 
Pharisee  kind  that  the  Lord  must  hate  worse 
than  all  others  — "and  then,  too,  I  am  sorry 
to  say  Pinkie  is  not  truthful,  and  has  been 
caught  taking  things  from  the  girls.  I  hope 
none  of  you  will  mention  this,  as  I  trust  by 
watching  over  her  to  correct  these  faults.  She 
begs  me  so  not  to  send  her  out  for  adoption, 
and  is  so  devoted  to  me  that — "  And  just 
then  she  saw  me,  which  she  hadn't  done  before, 
I  being  behind  Mrs.  Armstead,  and  she  stopped 
like  she  had  been  hit. 

8 


AN    UNTHANKFUL   ORPHAN 

For  a  minute  I  didn't  breathe.  I  didn't. 
All  I  did  was  to  stare — stare  with  mouth  open 
and  eyes  out ;  and  then  it  was  the  glasses  went 
down  and  I  flew  into  the  yard,  and  there  by 
the  pump  was  Pinkie. 

"Oh,  Pinkie!"  I  said.  "Oh,  Pinkie!"  And  I 
caught  her  round  the  waist  and  raced  up  and 
down  the  yard  like  a  wild  man  from  Borneo. 
"Oh,  Pinkie,  what  do  you  think  ?"  Poor  Pinkie, 
thinking  a  mad  dog  had  bit  me,  tried  to  make 
me  stop,  but  stop  I  wouldn't  until  there  was 
no  more  breath.  And  then  we  sat  down  on 
the  woodpile,  and  I  hugged  her  so  hard  I 
almost  broke  her  bones. 

First  I  was  so  mad  I  couldn't  cry,  and  then 
crying  so  I  couldn't  speak.  But  after  a  while 
words  came,  and  I  said: 

"Pinkie  Moore,  are  you  devoted  to  Miss 
Bray?  Are  you?  I  want  the  truest  truth. 
Are  you  devoted  to  her?" 

"  Devoted  to  Miss  Bray?  Devoted!"  And 
poor  little  Pinkie,  who  has  no  more  spirit  than 
a  poor  relation,  spoke  out  for  once.  "I  hate 
her!"  she  said.  "I  hate  her  worse  than  prunes; 
and  if  somebody  would  only  adopt  me,  I'd  be 
so  thankful  I'd  choke  for  joy,  except  for  leav 
ing  you."  Then  she  boohoo'd  too,  and  the 

9 


MARY   GARY 

tears  that  fell  between  us  looked  like  we  were 
artesian  wells— they  certainly  did. 

But  Pinkie  didn't  know  what  caused  my 
tears.  Mine  were  mad  tears,  and  not  being 
able  to  tell  her  why  they  came,  I  had  to  send 
her  to  the  house  to  wash  her  face.  I  washed 
mine  at  the  pump,  and  then  worked  off  some 
of  my  mad  by  sweeping  the  yard  as  hard  as  I 
could,  wishing  all  the  time  Miss  Bray  was  the 
leaves,  and  trying  to  make  believe  she  was.  I 
was  full  of  the  things  the  Bible  says  went  into 
swine,  and  I  knew  there  would  be  trouble  for 
me  before  the  day  was  out.  But  there  wasn't. 
Not  even  for  breaking  the  pump-handle  was  I 
punished,  and  Miss  Bray  tried  so  hard  to  be 
friendly  that  at  first  I  did  not  understand.  I 
do  now. 

That  was  my  first  experience  in  finding  out 
that  some  one  who  looked  like  a  lady  on  the 
outside  was  mean  and  deceitful  on  the  inside, 
and  it  made  me  tremble  all  over  to  find  it  could 
be  so.  Since  then  I  have  never  pretended  to 
be  friends  with  Miss  Bray.  As  for  her,  she 
hates  me— hates  me  because  she  knows  I  know 
what  sort  of  a  person  she  is,  a  sort  I  loathe 
from  my  heart. 

When  I  first  got  my  diary  I  thought  I  was 


10 


AN    UNTHANKFUL   ORPHAN 

going  to  write  in  it  every  day.  I  haven't,  and 
that  shows  I'm  no  better  on  resolves  than  I 
am  on  keeping  step.  I  never  keep  step.  Some 
times  I've  thought  I  was  really  something,  but 
I'm  not.  Nobody  much  is  when  you  know 
them  too  well.  It  is  a  good  thing  for  your 
pride  when  you  keep  a  diary,  specially  when 
you  are  truthful  in  it.  Each  day  that  you 
leave  out  is  an  evidence  of  character — poor 
character — for  it  shows  how  careless  and  put- 
off-y  you  are;  both  of  which  I  am. 

But  it  isn't  much  in  life  to  be  an  inmate  of  a 
Humane  Association,  or  a  Home,  or  an  Asylum, 
or  whatever  name  you  call  the  place  where  job- 
lot  charity  children  live.  And  that's  what  I 
am,  an  Inmate.  Inmates  are  like  malaria  and 
dyspepsia :  something  nobody  wants  and  every 
place  has.  Minerva  James  says  they  are  like 
veterans — they  die  and  yet  forever  live. 

Well,  anyhow,  whenever  I  used  to  do  wrong, 
which  was  pretty  constant,  I  would  say  to 
myself  it  didn't  matter,  nobody  cared.  And 
if  I  let  a  chance  slip  to  worry  Miss  Bray  I  was 
sorry  for  it ;  but  that  was  before  I  understood 
her,  and  before  Miss  Katherine  came.  Since 
Miss  Katherine  came  I  know  it's  yourself  that 
matters  most,  not  where  you  live  or  where 

ii 


MARY   GARY 

you  came  from,  and  I'm  thinking  a  little  more 
of  Mary  Gary  than  I  used  to,  though  in  a  dif 
ferent  way.  As  for  Miss  Bray,  I  truly  try  at 
times  to  forget  she's  living. 

But  she's  taught  me  a  good  deal  about  Hu 
man  Nature,  Miss  Bray  has.  About  the  side 
I  didn't  know.  It's  a  pity  there  are  things 
we  have  to  know.  I  think  I  will  make  a  special 
study  of  Human  Nature.  I  thought  once  I'd 
take  up  Botany  in  particular,  as  I  love  flowers ; 
or  Astronomy,  so  as  to  find  out  all  about  those 
million  worlds  in  the  sky,  so  superior  to  earth, 
and  so  much  larger;  but  I  think,  now,  I'll  settle 
on  Human  Nature.  Nobody  ever  knows  what 
it  is  going  to  do,  which  makes  it  full  of  sur 
prises,  but  there's  a  lot  that's  real  interesting 
about  it.  I  like  it.  As  for  its  Bray  side,  I'll 
try  not  to  think  about  it;  but  if  there  are 
puddles,  I  guess  it's  well  to  know  where,  so  as 
not  to  step  in  them.  I  wish  we  didn't  have 
to  know  about  puddles  and  things!  I'd  so 
much  rather  know  little  and  be  happy  than 
find  out  the  miserable  much  some  people  do. 

Anyhow,  I  won't  have  to  remember  all  I 
learn,  for  Miss  Katherine  says  there  are  many 
things  it's  wise  to  forget,  and  whenever  I  can 
I'll  forget  mean  things.  I'd  forget  Miss  Bray's 

12 


AN    UNTHANKFUL   ORPHAN 

if  she'd  tell  me  she  was  sorry  and  cross  her 
heart  she'd  never  do  them  again.  But  I  don't 
believe  she  ever  will.  God  is  going  to  have  a 
hard  time  with  Miss  Bray.  She's  right  old  to 
change,  and  she's  set  in  her  ways — bad  ways. 


II 


THE    COMING   OF   MISS    KATHERINE 

W,  why  can't  I  keep  on  at  a  thing 
like  Miss  Katherine  ?  Why  ?  Because 
I'm  just  Mary  Gary,  mostly  Martha; 
made  of  nothing,  came  from  nowhere, 
and  don't  know  where  I'm  going,  and 
have  no  more  system  in  my  nature 
than  Miss  Bray  has  charms  for  gentlemen. 

But  Miss  Katherine — well,  there  never  was 
and  never  will  be  but  one  Miss  Katherine,  and 
there's  as  much  chance  of  my  being  like  her  as 
there  is  of  my  reaching  the  stars.  I'll  never 
be  like  her,  but  she's  my  friend.  That's  the 
wonderful  part  of  it.  She's  my  friend.  And 
when  you've  got  a  friend  like  Miss  Katherine 
you've  got  strength  to  do  anything.  To  stand 
anything,  too. 

The  beautiful  part  of  it  is  that  I  live  with 
her;  that  is,  she  lives  in  the  Asylum,  and  I 
sleep  in  the  room  with  her. 

14 


THE   COMING   OF   MISS    KATHERINE 

It  happened  this  way.  Last  summer  I  didn't 
want  to  do  anything  but  sit  down.  It  was  the 
funniest  thing,  for  before  that  I  never  did  like 
to  sit  down  if  I  could  stand  up,  or  skip  around, 
or  climb,  or  run,  or  dance,  or  jump.  I  never 
could  walk  straight  or  slow,  and  I  never  can 
keep  step. 

Well,  last  summer  I  didn't  want  to  move, 
and  I  couldn't  eat,  and  I  didn't  even  feel  like 
reading.  I'd  have  such  queer  slipping-away 
feelings  right  in  my  heart  that  I'd  call  myself 
a  drop  of  ink  on  a  blotter  that  was  spreading 
and  spreading  and  couldn't  stop.  Sometimes  I 
would  think  I  was  sinking  down  and  down, 
but  I  really  wasn't  sinking,  for  I  didn't  move. 
I  only  felt  like  I  was,  and  I  wras  afraid  to  go 
to  sleep  at  night  for  fear  I  would  die,  and  I 
stayed  awake  so  as  to  know  about  it  if  I  did. 

And  then  I  began  to  be  afraid  of  dying,  and 
my  heart  would  beat  so  I  thought  it  would  wear 
out.  But  I  didn't  tell  anybody  how  I  felt.  I 
was  ashamed  of  being  afraid,  and  I  just  told 
God,  because  I  knew  He  could  understand  bet 
ter  than  anybody  else ;  and  I  asked  Him  please 
to  hold  on  to  me,  I  not  being  able  to  do  much 
holding  myself,  and  He  held.  I  know  it,  for  I 
felt  it. 


MARY    GARY 

You  see,  Mrs.  Blamire — she's  Miss  Bray's  as 
sistant — was  away ;  Miss  Bray  was  busy  getting 
ready  to  go  when  Mrs.  Blamire  came  back;  and 
Miss  Jones  was  pickling  and  preserving.  I 
didn't  want  to  bother  her,  so  I  dragged  on,  and 
kept  my  feelings  to  myself. 

The  girls  were  awful  good  to  me.  Real  many 
have  relations  in  Yorkburg,  and  if  I'd  eaten  all 
the  fruit  they  sent  me  I'd  been  a  tutti-frutti; 
but  I  couldn't  eat  it.  And  then  one  day  I  be 
gan  to  talk  so  queer  they  were  frightened,  and 
told  Miss  Bray,  and  she  sent  for  the  doctor 
quick.  That  afternoon  they  took  me  to  the 
hospital,  and  the  last  thing  I  saw  was  little 
Josie  White  crying  like  her  heart  would  break 
with  her  arms  around  a  tree. 

"Please  don't  die,  Mary  Gary,  please  don't 
die!"  she  kept  saying  over  and  over,  and  when 
they  tried  to  make  her  go  in  she  bawled  worse 
than  ever.  I  tried  to  wave  my  hand. 

"I'm  not  going  to  die,  I'm  coming  back,"  I 
said,  and  that's  all  I  remember. 

I  knew  they  put  me  in  something  and  drove 
off,  and  then  I  was  in  a  little  white  bed  in  a  big 
room  with  a  lot  of  other  little  beds  in  it;  and 
after  that  I  didn't  know  I  was  living  for  three 
weeks. 

16 


THE   COMING   OF   MISS    KATHERINE 

But  I  talked  just  the  same.  They  told  me  I 
made  speeches  by  the  hour,  and  read  books 
out  loud,  and  recited  poems  that  had  never 
been  printed.  But  when  I  stopped  and  lay  like 
the  dead,  just  breathing,  the  girls  say  they  heard 
there  were  no  hopes,  and  a  lot  of  them  just 
cried  and  cried.  It  was  awful  nice  of  them, 
and  if  they  hadn't  cut  my  hair  off  I  would  have 
made  a  real  pretty  corpse. 

The  day  I  first  saw  Miss  Katherine  really 
good  she  was  standing  by  my  bed,  holding  my 
wrist  in  one  hand  and  her  watch  in  another, 
and  I  thought  she  was  an  angel  and  I  was  in 
heaven.  She  was  in  white,  and  I  took  her 
little  white  cap  for  a  crown,  and  I  said: 

"Are  you  my  Mother?" 

She  nodded  and  smiled,  but  she  didn't  speak, 
and  I  asked  again: 

"Are  you  my  Mother?" 

"Your  right-now  Mother,"  she  said,  and  she 
smiled  so  delicious  I  thought  of  course  I  was 
in  heaven,  and  I  spoke  once  more. 

"Where's  God?" 

Then  she  stooped  down  and  kissed  me. 

"In  your  heart  and  mine,"  she  answered. 
"But  you  mustn't  talk,  not  yet.  Shut  your 
eyes,  and  I  will  sing  you  to  sleep."  And  I 

17 


MARY    GARY 

shut  them.     And  I  knew  I  was  in  heaven,  for 
heaven  isn't  a  place;  it's  a  feeling,  and  I  had  it. 

And  that's  how  I  met  Miss  Katherine. 

Her  father  and  mother  are  dead,  just  like  mine. 
Her  father  was  Judge  Trent,  and  his  father 
once  owned  half  the  houses  in  Yorkburg,  but 
lost  them  some  way,  and  what  he  didn't  lose 
Judge  Trent  did  after  the  war. 

When  her  father  died  Miss  Katherine  wouldn't 
live  with  either  of  her  brothers,  or  any  of  her 
relations,  but  went  to  Baltimore  to  study  to  be 
a  nurse.  After  she  graduated  she  didn't  come 
back  for  three  or  four  years,  and  she  hadn't 
been  back  six  months  when  I  was  taken  sick. 
And  now  I  sing: 

"  Praise  God  from  whom  that  sickness  flew." 

Sing  it  inside  almost  all  the  time. 

Miss  Katherine  don't  have  to  be  a  nurse. 
She  has  a  little  money.  I  don't  know  how 
much,  she  never  mentioning  money  before  me ; 
but  she  has  some,  for  I  heard  Miss  Bray  and 
Mrs.  Blamire  talking  one  night  when  they 
thought  I  was  asleep ;  and  for  once  I  didn't  in 
terrupt  or  let  them  know  I  was  awake. 

I  had  been  punished  so  often  for  speaking 
when  I  shouldn't  that  this  time  I  kept  quiet, 

18 


THE   COMING   OF   MISS    KATHERINE 

and  when  they  were  through  I  couldn't  sleep. 
I  was  so  excited  I  stayed  awake  all  night.  And 
from  joy — pure  joy. 

I  had  only  been  back  from  the  hospital  a 
week,  and  was  in  the  room  next  to  Mrs.  Bla- 
mire's,  where  the  children  who  are  sick  stay, 
when  I  heard  Miss  Bray  talking  to  Mrs.  Blamire, 
and  at  something  she  said  I  sat  up  in  bed. 
Right  or  wrong,  I  tried  to  hear.  I  did. 

They  were  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire,  and 
Miss  Bray  leaned  over  and  cracked  the  coals. 

1  'Have  you  heard  that  Miss  Katherine  Trent 
is  coming  here  as  a  trained  nurse?"  she  said, 
and  she  put  down  the  poker,  and,  folding  her 
arms,  began  to  rock. 

"You  don't  mean  it!"  said  Mrs.  Blamire,  and 
her  little  voice  just  cackled.  "Coming  here? 
To  this  place?  I  do  declare!"  And  she  drew 
her  chair  up  closer,  being  a  little  deaf. 

"That's  what  she's  going  to  do."  Miss  Bray 
took  off*  her  spectacles.  "The  Board  can't 
afford  to  pay  her  a  salary,  but  she's  offered  to 
come  without  one,  and  next  week  she'll  start 
in." 

"Katherine  Trent  always  was  queer,"  she 
went  on,  still  rocking  with  all  her  might.  "She 
can  get  big  prices  as  a  nurse,  though  she  doesn't 

19 


MARY   GARY 

have  to  nurse  at  all,  having  money  enough  to 
live  on  without  working.  And  why  she  wants 
to  come  to  a  place  like  this  and  fool  with  fifty- 
odd  children  and  get  no  pay  for  it  is  beyond 
my  understanding.  It's  her  business,  how 
ever,  not  mine,  and  I'm  glad  she's  coming." 

"I  do  declare!"  And  Mrs.  Blamire  clapped 
her  hands  like  she  was  getting  religion.  "My, 
but  I'm  glad!  Miss  Katherine  Trent  coming 
here !  And  next  week,  you  say  ?  I  do  de 
clare!"  And  her  gladness  sounded  in  her 
voice.  It  was  a  different  kind  from  Miss 
Bray's.  Even  in  the  dark  I  could  tell,  for 
hers  was  thankfulness  for  the  children.  Miss 
Bray  was  glad  for  herself. 

That  was  almost  a  year  ago,  and  now  my 
hair  has  come  out  and  curls  worse  than  ever. 
It's  very  thick,  and  it's  brown — light  brown. 

I'm  always  intending  to  stand  still  in  front 
of  the  glass  long  enough  to  see  what  I  do  look 
like,  but  I'm  always  in  such  a  hurry  I  don't 
have  time.  I  know  my  eyes  are  blue,  for  Miss 
Katherine  said  this  morning  they  got  bigger 
and  bluer  every  day,  and  if  I  didn't  eat  more 
I'd  be  nothing  but  eyes.  If  you  don't  like  a 
thing,  can  you  eat  it  ?  You  cannot.  That  is,  in 
summer  you  can't.  In  winter  it's  a  little  easier. 

20 


THE   COMING   OF   MISS    KATHERINE 

I  never  have  understood  how  Miss  Katherine 
could  have  come  to  an  Orphan  Asylum  to  live 
and  to  eat  Orphan  Asylum  meals  when  she 
could  have  eaten  the  best  in  Yorkburg.  And 
Yorkburg's  best  is  the  best  on  earth.  Every 
body  says  that  who's  tried  other  places,  even 
Miss  Webb,  who  gets  right  impatient  with 
Yorkburg's  slowness  and  enjoyment  of  itself. 

And  Miss  Katherine  is  living  here  from  pure 
choice.  That's  what  she  is  doing,  and  she's 
made  living  creatures  of  us,  just  like  God  did 
when  He  breathed  on  Adam  and  woke  him  up. 

At  the  hospital  she  used  to  ask  me  all  about 
the  Asylum,  and,  never  guessing  why,  I  told 
her  all  I  knew,  except  about  Miss  Bray.  Miss 
Katherine  had  known  the  Asylum  all  her  life, 
but  had  only  been  in  it  twice — just  passing  it 
by,  not  thinking.  When  I  got  better  and 
could  talk  as  much  as  I  pleased,  she  wanted 
to  know  how  many  of  us  there  were,  what  we 
did,  and  how  we  did  it:  what  we  ate,  and 
what  kind  of  underclothes  we  wore  in  winter, 
and  how  many  times  a  week  we  bathed  all 
over;  when  we  got  up,  and  what  we  studied, 
and  how  long  we  sewed  each  day,  and  how  long 
we  played,  and  when  we  went  to  bed — and  all 
sorts  of  other  things.  I  wondered  why  she 

21 


MARY   GARY 

wanted  to  know,  and  when  I  found  out  I  could 
have  laid  right  down  and  died  from  pure  glad 
ness.  I  didn't,  though. 

Once  I  asked  her  what  made  her  do  it,  and 
she  laughed  and  said  because  she  wanted  to,  and 
that  she  was  much  obliged  to  me  for  having  found 
her  work  for  her.  But  I  believe  there's  some 
other  reason  she  won't  tell. 

And  why  I  believe  so  is  that  sometimes,  when 
she  thinks  I  am  asleep,  I  see  her  looking  in  the 
fire,  and  there's  something  in  her  face  that's 
never  there  at  any  other  time.  It's  a  remem 
brance.  I  guess  most  hearts  have  them  if  they 
live  long  enough.  But  you'd  never  think  Miss 
Katherine  had  one,  she's  so  glad  and  cheerful 
and  busy  all  the  time.  I  wonder  if  it's  a  sweet 
heart  remembrance?  I  know  three  of  her 
beaux;  one  in  Yorkburg  and  two  from  away, 
who  have  been  to  see  her  frequent  times;  but 
a  beau  is  different  from  a  sweetheart.  I'm  sure 
that  look  means  something  secret,  and  I  bet 
it's  a  man.  Who  is  he?  I  don't  know.  I 
wish  he  was  dead.  I  do! 

When  I  first  came  back  from  the  hospital 
my  little  old  sticks  of  legs  wouldn't  hold  me 
up,  and  down  I  would  go.  But  I  didn't  mind 
that.  I  just  minded  not  going  to  sleep  at 

22 


THE   COMING   OF   MISS   {CATHERINE 

night.  But  sleep  wouldn't  come,  and  I'd  get 
so  wide  awake  trying  to  make  it  that  I  began 
to  havc  a  teeny  bit  of  fever  again,  and  then  it 
was  Miss  Katherine  asked  if  she  might  take 
me  in  her  room.  I  was  nervous  and  still  needed 
attention,  she  said,  and — magnificent  glorious- 
ness  ! — I  was  sent  to  her  room  to  stay  until  per 
fectly  well,  and  I'm  here  yet.  Perfectly  well 
because  I  am  here! 

That  first  night  when  I  got  into  the  little 
white  bed  next  to  her  bed,  and  knew  she  was 
going  to  be  there  beside  me,  I  couldn't  go  to 
sleep  right  off.  I  kept  wishing  I  was  King 
David,  so  I  could  write  a  book  of  gratitudes 
and  psalms  an  praises,  and  that  was  the  first 
night  I  ever  really  prayed  right.  I  didn't  ask 
for  a  thing  except  for  help  to  be  worth  it — the 
trouble  she  was  taking  for  just  little  me,  a 
charity  child.  Just  me! 

And  oh,  the  difference  in  her  room  and  the 
room  I  had  left!  She  had  had  it  painted  and 
papered  herself,  for  it  hadn't  been  used  since 
kingdom  come,  and  the  cobwebs  in  it  would 
have  filled  a  barrel.  It  had  been  a  packing- 
room,  and  when  Miss  Katherine  first  saw  it 
she  just  whistled  soft  and  easy;  but  when  she 
was  through,  it  was  just  a  dream. 
23 


MARY   GARY 

It  is  a  big  room  at  the  end  of  the  wing,  and 
it  has  three  windows  in  it :  one  in  the  front  and 
one  in  the  back  and  one  opposite  the  door  you 
come  in.  And  when  the  paper  was  put  on 
you  felt  like  you  were  in  a  great  big  garden  of 
roses;  pink  roses,  for  they  were  running  all 
over  the  walls,  and  they  were  so  natural  I 
could  smell  them.  I  really  could. 

Miss  Katherine  brought  her  own  furniture 
and  things,  and  she  put  a  carpet  on  the  floor, 
all  over,  not  just  strips.  And  the  windows  had 
muslin  curtains  at  them  with  cretonne  curtains 
just  full  of  pink  roses,  looped  back  from  the 
muslin  ones;  and  the  couch  and  the  cushions 
and  some  chairs  were  all  covered  with  the  same 
kind  of  pink  roses.  And  as  for  the  bed,  it  was 
too  sweet  for  anybody  to  lie  on — that  is,  for 
anybody  but  Miss  Katherine  to  lie  on. 

There  was  a  big  closet  for  her  clothes,  and 
a  writing-desk  which  had  been  in  the  family  a 
hundred  years— maybe  a  thousand.  I  don't 
know.  And  one  side  of  the  room  was  filled 
with  books  in  shelves  which  old  Peter  Sands 
made  and  painted  white  for  her.  She  lets  me 
look  at  them  as  much  as  I  want,  and  says  I  can 
read  as  many  as  I  choose  when  I  am  old  enough 
to  understand  them.  She  didn't  mention  any 
24 


THE   COMING   OF   MISS   KATHERINE 

time  to  begin  trying  to  understand,  and  so  I 
started  at  once,  and  I've  read  about  forty 
already. 

There  aren't  a  great  many  pictures  on  Miss 
Katherine's  walls.  Just  a  few  besides  the  por 
traits  of  her  father  and  mother,  oil  paintings. 
And  oh,  dear  children  what  are  to  be,  I'm  going 
to  have  my  picture  painted  as  soon  as  I  marry 
your  father,  so  you  can  know  what  I  looked 
like  in  case  I  should  die  without  warning.  I 
want  you  to  have  it,  knowing  so  well  what  it 
means  to  have  nothing  that  belonged  to  your 
mother,  I  not  having  anything — not  even  a 
strand  of  hair  or  a  message. 

Sometimes  I  wonder  if  I  ever  really  did  have 
a  Mother,  or  if  the  doctor  just  left  me  some 
where  and  nobody  wanted  me.  I  must  have 
had  one,  for  Betty  Johnson  says  a  baby's  bound 
to.  That  a  father  isn't  so  specially  necessary, 
but  you've  got  to  have  a  Mother.  Mine  died 
when  I  was  born.  I  wonder  how  that  happened 
when  there  wasn't  anybody  in  all  this  great 
big  earth  to  take  care  of  me  except  my  father, 
who  didn't  know  how.  He  died,  too,  and  then 
I  was  an  Orphan. 

This  is  a  strange  world,  and  it's  better  not  to 
try  to  understand  things. 


MARY   GARY 

In  the  winter  time  Miss  Katherine  always 
has  a  beautiful  crackling  fire  in  her  room,  and 
some  growing  flowers  and  green  things.  It  was 
a  revelation  to  the  girls,  her  room  was.  Not 
fine,  and  it  didn't  cost  much,  but  you  felt  nicer 
and  kinder  the  minute  you  went  in  it.  And 
it  made  Mrs.  Reagan's  grand  parlors  seem  like 
shining  brass  and  tinkling  cymbals.  I  won 
der  why? 


Ill 


MARY,    FREQUENTLY   MARTHA 

r,  I  AM  going  to  write  a  history  of  my 
I  *  life.  The  things  that  happen  in  this 
place  are  the  same  things,  just  like 
our  breakfasts,  dinners,  and  suppers. 
They  wouldn't  be  interesting  to  hear 
about,  so  while  waiting  for  something 
real  exciting  to  put  down,  I  am  going  to  write 
my  history. 

I  don't  know  very  much  about  who  I  am.  I 
wish  my  Mother  had  left  a  diary  about  herself, 
but  she  didn't.  Nobody,  not  even  Miss  Kather- 
ine,  will  tell  me  who  I  was  before  I  came  here, 
which  I  did  when  I  was  three.  I  know  my 
nurse  brought  me,  but  I  can't  remember  what 
she  looked  like,  and  when  she  went  away  with 
out  me:  I  never  saw  nor  heard  of  her  again. 
I  don't  even  know  her  name.  I  thought  it  was 
fine  to  play  in  a  big  yard  with  a  lot  of  children, 
and  I  soon  stopped  crying  for  my  nurse. 

27 


MARY    GARY 

I  never  did  see  much  sense  in  crying.  Every 
body  was  good  to  me,  and  not  being  old  enough 
to  know  I  was  a  Charity  child,  and  by  nature 
happy,  they  used  to  call  me  Cricket.  Some 
times  some  of  them  call  me  that  now. 

A  hundred  dozen  times  I  have  asked  Miss 
Katherine  to  tell  me  something  about  myself, 
but  in  some  way  she  always  gets  out  of  it.  I 
know  my  mother  and  father  are  dead,  but  that's 
all  I  do  know;  and  I  wouldn't  ask  Miss  Bray 
if  I  had  to  stand  alone  for  ever  and  ever. 

Sometimes  I  believe  Miss  Katherine  knows 
something  she  won't  tell  me,  but  since  I  found 
out  she  don't  like  me  to  ask  her  I've  stopped. 
And  not  being  able  to  ask  out  what  I'd  like,  I 
think  a  lot  more,  and  some  nights  when  I  can't 
go  to  sleep,  it  gives  me  an  awful  sinking  feeling 
right  down  in  my  stomach,  to  think  in  all  this 
great  big  world  there  isn't  a  human  that's  any 
kin  to  me. 

I  might  have  come  from  the  heavens  above 
or  the  depths  below,  only  I  didn't,  and  being 
like  other  girls  in  size  and  shape  and  feelings, 
I  know  I  once  did  have  a  Mother  and  Father. 
But  if  they  had  relations  they've  kept  quiet, 
and  it's  plain  they  don't  want  to  know  any 
thing  about  me,  never  having  asked. 
28 


FREQUENTLY    MARTHA 

It  would  make  me  miserable — this  aloneness 
would,  if  I  let  it.  I  won't  let  it.  I  have  got 
to  look  out  for  Mary  Gary,  frequently  Martha, 
and  when  you're  miserable  you  don't  get  much 
of  anything  that's  going  around.  I  won't  be 
unhappy.  I  just  won't.  I  haven't  enough 
other  blessings. 

But  not  being  able  to  speak  out  as  much  as 
I  would  like  on  some  things  personal,  I  got 
into  the  habit  of  talking  to  my  other  self,  which 
I  named  Martha,  and  which  I  call  my  secret 
sister.  Martha  is  my  every-day  self,  like  the 
Bible  Martha  who  did  things,  and  didn't  worry 
trying  to  find  out  what  couldn't  be  found  out, 
specially  about  why  God  lets  Mothers  die. 

Mary  is  my  Sunday  self  who  wonders  and 
wonders  at  everything  and  asks  a  million  ques 
tions  inside,  and  goes  along  and  lets  people 
think  she  is  truly  Martha  when  she  knows  all 
the  time  she  isn't.  And  if  I  do  hold  out  and 
write  a  history  of  my  life,  it's  going  to  be  a 
Martha  and  Mary  history;  for  some  days  I'm 
one,  some  another,  and  whichever  I  happen 
to  be  is  plain  to  be  seen. 

When  I  grow  up  I  am  going  to  marry  a 
million-dollar  man,  so  I  can  travel  around  the 
world  and  have  a  house  in  Paris  with  twenty 

29 


MARY   GARY 

bath-rooms  in  it.  And  I'm  going  to  have  horses 
and  automobiles  and  a  private  car  and  balloons, 
if  they  are  working  all  right  by  that  time.  I 
hope  they  will  be,  for  I  want  something  in 
which  I  can  soar  up  and  sit  and  look  down  on 
other  people. 

All  my  life  people  have  looked  down  on  me, 
passing  me  by  like  I  was  a  Juny  bug  or  a 
caterpillar,  and  I  don't  wonder.  I'm  merely 
Mary  Gary  with  fifty-eight  more  just  like  me. 
Blue  calico,  white  dots  for  winter,  white  calico, 
blue  dots  for  summer.  Black  sailor  hats  and 
white  sailor  hats  with  blue  capes  for  cold 
weather,  and  no  fire  to  dress  by,  and  freezing 
fingers  when  it's  cold,  and  no  ice-water  when 
it's  hot. 

Yes,  dear  Mary,  you  and  I  are  going  to  marry 
a  rich  man.  (Martha  is  writing  to-day.)  I 
will  try  to  love  him,  but  if  I  can't  I  will  be 
polite  to  him  and  travel  alone  as  much  as  pos 
sible.  But  I  am  going  to  be  rich  some  day. 
I  am.  And  when  I  come  back  to  Yorkburg 
eyes  will  bulge,  for  the  clothes  I  am  going  to 
wear  will  make  mouths  water,  they're  going  to 
be  so  grand.  Miss  Katherine  would  be  ashamed 
of  that  and  make  me  ashamed,  but  this  writing 
is  for  the  relief  of  feelings. 

30 


FREQUENTLY   MARTHA 

But  there's  one  thing  I'm  surer  of  than  I 
am  of  being  rich,  and  that  is  that  there  are 
to  be  no  secrets  about  my  children's  mother. 
They  are  to  know  all  about  me  I  can  tell,  which 
won't  be  much  or  distinguished,  but  what  there 
is  they're  to  know.  And  that's  the  chief  reason 
I'm  going  to  write  my  history,  so  as  to  remember 
in  case  I  forget. 

Well,  now  I  will  begin.  I  am  eleven  years 
and  eleven  months  and  three  days  old.  I  don't 
have  birthday  parties.  The  Yorkburg  Female 
Orphan  Asylum  is  a  large  house  with  a  wide 
hall  in  the  middle,  and  a  wing  en  one  side  that 
makes  it  look  like  Major  Green,  who  lost  one 
arm  in  the  war. 

There  are  large  grounds  around  the  house, 
and  around  the  grounds  is  a  high  brick  wall 
in  front  and  a  wooden  fence  back  and  sides. 
The  children  and  the  chickens  use  the  grounds 
at  the  back;  the  front  has  grass  and  flowers,  and 
is  for  company,  which  is  seldom.  Sometimes, 
just  because  I  can't  help  it,  I  chase  a  chicken 
through  the  front  so  as  to  know  how  it  feels  to 
run  in  the  grass,  which  it  is  forbidden  to  do. 

Forbidden  things  are  so  much  nicer  than  un- 
forbidden.  I  love  to  do  them  until  they're 
done. 


MARY    GARY 


The  Asylum  is  on  King  Street,  almost  at  the 
very  end,  and  there  isn't  much  passing,  just 
the  Tates  and  the  Gordons  and  a  few  others 
living  farther  on.  The  dining-room  is  in  the 
basement,  half  below  the  ground,  and  on  cloudy 
days  the  lamps  have  to  be  lighted — that  is,  they 
used  to.  Now  we  have  electric  lights,  and  I 
just  love  to  turn  them  on.  It's  such  a  grand 
way  to  get  a  thing  done,  just  to  press  a  button. 

The  dining-room  has  a  picture  over  the 
mantel  of  a  cow  standing  in  yellow-brown 
grass,  and,  though  hideous,  it's  a  great  comfort. 
That  cow  understands  our  feelings  at  meal 
times,  and  we  understand  hers. 

Humane  meals  are  very  much  like  yellow- 
brown  grass,  and  our  clothes  are  on  the  same 
order  as  our  meals.  As  for  our  days,  if  it  wasn't 
for  calendars  we  wouldn't  know  one  from  the 
other,  except  Sundays,  for,  unlike  the  stars 
mentioned  by  St.  Paul,  they  differ  not. 

The  rising-bell  rings  at  five  o'clock,  and  all 
except  the  very  littlest  get  up  and  clean  up 
until  seven,  when  we  march  into  the  dining- 
room.  At  7.25  we  rise  at  the  tap  of  Miss  Bray's 
bell,  and  those  who  have  more  cleaning  up 
stairs  march  out;  those  who  clear  the  table 
and  wash  the  dishes  stay  behind.  At  8.30  we 

32 


FREQUENTLY    MARTHA 

march  into  the  school-room,  where  we  have 
prayers  and  calisthenics.  The  calisthenics  are 
fine.  At  nine  we  begin  recitations. 

We  have  a  teacher  who  lives  in  town,  Miss 
Elvira  Strother.  She's  a  good  teacher.  The 
older  girls  help  teach  the  little  ones,  and  next 
year  I'm  to  help. 

This  Asylum  is  over  ninety  (90)  years  old, 
but  looks  much  older.  There  is  just  money 
enough  to  run  it,  and  it  hasn't  had  any  paint 
or  improvements  in  the  memory  of  man,  ex 
cept  the  electric  lights.  The  town  put  those 
in  for  safety,  and  don't  charge  for  them. 

I  wish  the  town  would  put  in  bath-tubs  for 
the  same  reason.  It  would  make  the  children 
much  nicer.  They  just  naturally  don't  like  to 
wash,  and  one  small  pitcher  of  water  for  two 
girls  don't  allow  much  splashing. 

But  Yorkburg  hasn't  any  water-works,  not 
being  born  with  them.  I  mean,  water-works 
not  being  the  fashion  when  Yorkburg  was  first 
begun,  nobody  has  ever  thought  of  putting 
them  in.  Mr.  Loyall,  he's  the  mayor,  says 
everybody  has  gotten  on  very  well  for  over 
two  hundred  years  without  them,  and  he  don't 
see  any  use  in  stirring  up  the  subject.  So 
there'll  never  be  any  change  until  he's  dead, 

33 


MARY   GARY 

and  in   Yorkburg    nobody   dies   till  the  last 
thing. 

There  wouldn't  be  any  electric  lights  if  the 
shoe  factory  hadn't  come  here.  The  men  who 
brought  it  came  from  New  Jersey,  and  they 
wanted  light,  and  got  it.  And  Yorkburg  was 
so  pleased  that  it  moved  a  little  and  made 
some  light  for  itself;  and  now  everything  in 
town  just  blazes,  even  the  Asylum. 

I  used  to  sleep  in  No.  4,  but  I  don't  sleep 
there  now.  It  is  a  big  room,  and  has  six  win 
dows  in  it,  and  in  winter  we  children  used  to 
play  we  were  arctic  explorers  and  would  search 
for  icebergs.  The  North  Pole  was  the  Reagan's 
house,  half-way  down  the  street,  and  it  might 
as  well  have  been,  for  it  was  as  much  beyond 
our  reach. 

But  it  was  the  one  thing  we  were  all  going 
to  get  some  day  when  we  married  rich.  And 
when  we  got  it,  we  were  going  to  drive  up  to 
the  Gait  House— that's  the  Home  for  Poor 
and  Proud  Ladies — and  ask  for  Mrs.  Reagan, 
who  was  to  be  in  it  in  the  third  floor  back, 
and  leave  her  some  old  clothes  with  the  buttons 
off,  and  old  magazines. .  None  of  us  could  bear 
Mrs,  Reagan — not  a  single  one. 

It  is  a  beautiful  house,  Mrs.  Reagan's  is.     It 
34 


FREQUENTLY    MARTHA 

has  large  white  pillars  in  the  front  and  back, 
and  it's  got  three  bath-rooms,  and  a  big  tank 
in  the  back  yard.  And  it  has  velvet  curtains 
over  the  lace  ones,  and  gold  furniture  and  pict 
ures  with  gold  frames  a  foot  wide. 

I  heard  Miss  Katherine  talking  about  it  to 
Miss  Webb  one  night.  They  were  laughing 
about  something  Miss  Katherine  said  was  the 
most  impossible  of  all,  and  Miss  Webb  said  it 
was  desecrating  for  such  a  stately  old  house  to 
fall  into  the  hands  of  such  bulgarians.  What 
are  bulgarians  ?  I  don't  know.  But  they're  not 
ladies. 

Mrs.  Reagan  is  not  a  lady.  The  way  I  found 
it  out  was  this.  Miss  Jones,  she's  our  house 
keeper,  sent  a  message  to  her  one  day  by 
Bertha  Reed  and  me  about  some  pickles. 
Bertha  is  awful  timid,  and  she  didn't  know 
whether  or  not  we  ought  to  go  to  the  front 
door;  but  I  did,  and  I  told  her  to  come  on. 

"I  don't  go  to  back  doors,  if  I  don't  know 
my  family  history,"  I  said.  "I  know  who  I 
am,  and  something  inside  of  me  tells  me  where 
to  go."  And  I  pressed  the  button  so  hard  I 
thought  I'd  broken  it  unintentional. 

The  man-servant  opened  the  door  and  looked 
at  us  as  if  weary  and  surprised,  and  said  nothing. 

35 


MARY   GARY 

"Is  Mrs.  Reagan  in?"  I  asked. 

"She  is." 

That's  all  he  said.  He  waited.  I  waited. 
Then  I  stepped  forward. 

"We  will  come  in,"  I  said.  "And  you  go 
and  tell  her  Mary  Gary  would  like  to  see  her, 
having  a  message  from  Miss  Jones."  And  he 
was  so  surprised  he  moved  aside,  and  in  I 
walked. 

I  had  heard  so  much  about  this  house  that  I 
wasn't  going  to  miss  seeing  what  was  in  it,  if 
that  fool  man  was  rude;  so  while  he  was  gone 
to  get  Mrs.  Reagan  I  counted  everything  in  the 
front  parlor  as  quick  as  I  could,  and  told 
Bertha  to  count  everything  in  the  back. 

There  were  three  sofas  and  two  mirrors  and 
nine  chairs  and  six  rugs  and  six  tables  and 
two  pianos,  one  little  old-fashioned  one  and  a 
big  new  one;  and  three  stools  and  seventeen 
candlesticks  and  four  pedestals  with  statuary 
on  them,  some  broken,  all  naked;  and  seven 
palms  and  twenty- three  pictures  and  two  lamps 
and  five  red-plush  curtains,  three  pairs  over  the 
lace  ones  and  two  at  the  doors;  and  as  for 
ornaments,  it  was  a  shop.  And  not  one  single 
book. 

I  am  sure  I  got  the  things  right,  for  I'd  been 
36 


FREQUENTLY   MARTHA 

practising  remembering  at  observation  parties, 
in  case  I  ever  got  a  chance  to  see  inside  this 
house;  and  I  looked  hard  so  I  could  tell  the 
girls. 

Poor  Bertha  was  so  frightened  she  didn't  re 
member  anything  but  the  clock  and  a  china 
cat  and  an  easel  and  picture,  and  before  I 
could  count  Mrs.  Reagan  came  in. 

She  stopped  in  the  doorway,  and  had  we 
come  from  leper-land  she  couldn't  have  held 
herself  farther  off. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  here?"  she  asked, 
and  she  tried  the  haughty  air — "What  are  you 
doing  in  here?" 

"We  were  waiting  for  you,"  I  said.  "We 
have  a  message  from  Miss  Jones." 

"Well,  another  time  don't  wait  in  here,  and 
don't  come  to  the  front  door  if  you  have  a 
message  from  Miss  Jones  or  Miss  Any-body-else. 
I  don't  want  any  pickles  this  year.  Had  I 
wanted  any  I  would  have  sent  her  word. 
You  understand  ?  Don't  ever  come  here  again 
in  this  way!"  And  she  waved  us  out  as  if  we 
were  flies. 

For  a  minute  I  looked  at  her  as  if  she  were 
a  Mrs.  Jorley's  wax- works,  and  then  I  made  a 
bow  like  I  make  in  charades. 

37 


MARY   GARY 

"We  understand,"  I  said.  "And  we  will 
not  come  again.  We've  heard  a  good  many 
people  in  Yorkburg  have  been  once  and  no 
more."  And  I  bowed  again  and  walked  past 
her  like  she  was  a  stage  character,  which  she 
was,  being  a  pretence  and  nothing  else. 

Mad?  I  tell  you,  I  was  Martha  for  a  week, 
and  then  I  saw,  real  sudden,  how  silly  I  was  to 
let  a  bulgarian  make  me  mad. 

But  if  I'm  ever  expected  to  love  anything 
like  that,  it  will  be  expecting  too  much  of  Mary 
Gary,  mostly  Martha,  for  she  isn't  an  enemy. 
She's  just  a  make-believe  of  something  she 
wasn't  born  into  being  and  don't  know  how 
to  make  herself.  She  don't  agree  with  my 
nature,  and  if  I  had  a  parlor  she  couldn't  come 
into  it  either.  She  could  not. 


IV 


THE    STEPPED-ON   AND   THE    STEPPERS 

DON'T  believe  I  ever  have  written 
anything  about  my  first  years  at  this 
Asylum.  I  am  naturally  a  wander 
ing  person.  Well,  I  was  happy.  I 
know  I've  said  that  before,  but  Miss 
Katherine  says  that's  one  of  the  few 
things  you  can  say  often. 

I  had  a  kitten,  and  a  chicken  which  I  killed 
by  mistake.  I  took  it  to  the  pump  to  wash  it, 
and  it  lost  its  breath  and  died.  I  still  put 
flowers  on  the  place  where  its  grave  was. 

It  was  my  first  to  die.  I  have  lost  many 
others  since:  a  cat,  and  a  rabbit,  and  a  rooster 
called  Napoleon  because  he  was  so  strutty  and 
domineering  to  his  wives.  I  didn't  put  up  any- 
thing  to  his  grave.  I  didn't  think  the  hens 
would  like  it.  They  just  despised  him. 

Then   there   were   the   remains   of  Rebecca 
Baker.     She  was  of  rags,  with  button  eyes  and 
39 


MARY   GARY 

no  teeth,  just  marks  for  them;  but  I  loved  her 
very  much.  I  kept  her  as  long  as  there  was 
anything  to  hold  her  by;  but  after  legs  and 
arms  went,  and  the  back  of  her  head  got  so 
thin  from  lack  of  sawdust  that  she  had  neu 
ralgia  all  the  time,  I  found  her  dead  one  morn 
ing,  and  buried  her  at  once. 

I  loved  Rebecca  Baker:  not  for  looks,  but 
for  comfort.  I  could  talk  to  her  without  fear 
of  her  telling.  She  always  knew  how  hungry 
I  was,  and  how  I  hated  oatmeal  without  sugar, 
and  she  never  talked  back. 

During  the  years  from  three  to  nine  I  lived 
just  mechanical,  except  on  the  inside.  I  got 
up  to  a  bell  and  cleaned  to  a  bell,  and  sat 
down  to  eat  to  a  bell;  rose  to  a  bell,  went  to 
school  to  a  bell,  came  out  to  a  bell,  worked  to 
a  bell,  sewed  to  a  bell,  played  to  a  bell,  said 
my  prayers  to  a  bell,  got  in  bed  to  a  bell,  and 
the  next  day  and  every  day  did  the  same  thing 
over  to  the  same  old  bell. 

But  when  I  marry  my  children's  father  there 
are  to  be  no  bells  in  the  house  we  live  in.  Only 
buttons,  with  no  particular  time  to  be  pressed. 

We  go  to  church  to  a  bell,  too;  that,  is  to 
Sunday-school.  We  always  go  to  St.  John's 
Sunday-school—Episcopal.  The  man  who  left 

40 


THE  STEPPED-ON  AND  STEPPERS 

this  place  put  it  in  his  will  that  we  had  to,  but 
we  go  to  all  the  other  churches.  Episcopal  the 
first  Sunday,  Methodist  the  second,  Presbyterian 
the  third,  and  Baptist  the  fourth,  and  when  we 
get  through  we  begin  all  over  again. 

We  go  to  church  like  we  do  everything  else, 
two  by  two.  Start  at  a  tap  of  that  same  old 
bell,  and  march  along  like  wooden  figures 
wound  up;  and  the  people  who  see  us  don't 
think  we  are  really  truly  children  or  like  theirs, 
except  in  shape  inside.  They  think  we  just 
love  our  hideous  clothes,  and  that  we  ought 
to  be  thankful  for  molasses  and  bread-and- 
milk  every  night  in  the  week  but  one,  and  if 
we're  not,  we're  wicked.  Rich  people  think 
queer  things. 

Sundays  at  the  Humane  are  terribly  religious. 
They  begin  early  and  last  until  after  supper, 
and  if  anybody  is  sorry  when  Sunday  is  over, 
it's  never  been  mentioned  out  loud.  We  have 
prayers  and  Bible  -  reading  before  breakfast 
every  day,  but  on  Sundays  longer.  Then  we 
go  to  Sunday-school,  where  some  of  the  children 
stare  at  us  like  we  were  foreign  heathen  who 
have  come  to  get  saved.  Some  nudge  each 
other  and  laugh.  But  real  many  are  nice  and 
sweet,  and  I  just  love  that  little  Minnie  Dawes, 

*  41 


MARY    GARY 

who  sits  in  front  of  me.  She  wears  the  prettiest 
hats  in  Yorkburg,  and  I  get  lots  of  ideas  from 
them.  I  trim  hats  in  my  mind  all  the  time 
Miss  Sallie  is  talking — Miss  Sallie  is  our  teacher. 

She  is  a  good  lady,  Miss  Sallie  Ray  is.  Her 
chief  occupation  is  religion,  and  as  for  going  to 
church,  it's  the  true  joy  of  her  life.  She's  in 
love  with  Mr.  Benson,  the  Superintendent,  and 
very  regular  at  all  the  services.  So  is  he. 

But  for  teaching  children  Miss  Sallie  wasn't 
meant.  She  really  wasn't.  She  never  surely 
knows  the  lesson  herself,  and  it  was  such  fun 
asking  her  all  sorts  of  questions  just  to  see 
her  flounder  round  for  answers  that  I  used  to 
pretend  I  wanted  to  know  a  lot  of  things  I 
didn't.  But  I  don't  do  that  now.  It  was  like 
punching  a  lame  cat  to  see  it  hop,  and  I 
stopped. 

She  don't  ask  me  anything,  either.  Never 
has  since  the  day  Mr.  Benson  came  in  our 
class  and  asked  for  a  little  review,  and  Martha 
Gary  made  trouble,  of  course. 

Miss  Sallie  was  so  red  and  excited  by  Mr. 
Benson  sitting  there  beside  her  that  she  didn't 
know  what  she  was  doing.  She  didn't,  or  she 
wouldn't  have  asked  me  questions,  knowing  I 
never  say  the  things  I  ought.  But  after  a 

42 


THE  STEPPED-ON  AND  STEPPERS 

minute  she  did  ask  me,  fanning  just  as  hard 
as  she  could.     It  was  in  January. 

"Now,  Mary  Gary,  tell  us  something  of  the 
people  we  have  been  studying  about  this  win 
ter,"  she  said.  "Mention  something  of  Abra 
ham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob,  and  Peter  and  Paul. 
Who  was  Abraham?" 

"Abraham  was  a  coward,"  I  said. 
"A    what?"     And    her    voice    was    a    little 
shriek.     "A  what?" 

"A  coward.  He  was!  He  passed  his  wife 
off  for  his  sister,  fearing  trouble  for  himself, 
and  not  thinking  of  consequences  for  her." 

"That  will  do,"  she  said,  and  she  fanned 
harder  than  ever,  and  looked  real  frightened  at 
Mr.  Benson,  who  was  blowing  his  nose.  "Susie 
Rice,  who  was  Jacob?" 

Susie  didn't  know.  Nobody  knew,  so  I  spoke 
again. 

"Jacob  was  a  rascal.  He  deceived  his  father 
and  stole  from  his  brother.  But  he  prospered 
and  repented,  and  died  prominent." 

Mr.  Benson  got  up  and  said  he  believed  his 
nose  was  bleeding,  and  went  out  quick,  and 
since  then  Miss  Sallie  has  never  asked  me  a 
single  question.  Not  one. 

Now  I  wonder  what  made  Martha  speak  out 
43 


MARY    GARY 

like  that  ?  Abraham  and  Jacob  were  good  men 
who  did  some  bad  things,  but  generally  only 
their  goodness  is  mentioned.  While  you're  liv 
ing  it's  apt  to  be  the  other  way» 

But  I'm  glad  the  bad  is  overlooked  in  time. 
Maybe  that  is  what  God  will  do  with  every 
body.  He'll  wipe  out  all  the  wrongness  and 
meanness,  and  see  through  it  to  the  good.  I 
hope  that's  the  way  it's  going  to  be,  for  that's 
my  only  chance. 

Since  Miss  Sallie  stopped  asking  me  any 
thing,  and  I  her,  I  have  a  lovely  time  in  my 
mind  taking  things  off  the  other  children  and 
putting  them  on  the  Orphans.  There's  Mar 
garet  Evans.  In  the  winter  she's  always  blue 
and  frozen,  and  I'd  give  her  that  Mallory 
child's  velvet  coat  and  gray  muff  and  tippet, 
and  put  Margaret's  blue  cape  and  calico  dress 
on  her. 

Poor  little  Margaret!  She's  so  humble  and 
thankful  she  gets  even  less  than  the  rest,  it 
looks  like,  though  I  suppose  in  clothes  she  has 
the  same  allowance,  and  the  difference,  maybe, 
is  in  herself. 

Some  people  are  born  to  be  stepped  on,  and 
of  steppers  there  are  always  a-plenty. 

After  Sunday-school  we  walk  to  the  church 
44 


THE  STEPPED-ON  AND  STEPPERS 

we're  going  to,  two  by  two,  just  alike  and  all 
in  blue.  The  minister  always  mentions  us  in 
his  prayers,  except  at  St.  John's,  the  prayer- 
book  not  providing  for  Orphans  in  particular. 

When  church  is  over  we  march  home  and 
have  dinner,  and  after  dinner  we  study  the 
lesson  for  next  Sunday  and  practise  hymns 
until  time  for  the  afternoon  service.  That  be 
gins  at  four,  and  some  of  the  town  ministers 
preach  or  talk,  generally  preach,  long  and 
wearisome. 

The  Episcopal  minister  gets  through  in  a 
hurry.  We  love  to  have  him.  He  talks  so 
fast  we  don't  half  understand,  and  before  we 
know  it  he's  got  his  hand  up  and  we  hear  him 
saying:  "And  now  to  the  Father  and  to  the 
Son — "  And  the  rest  is  mumbled,  but  we 
know  he's  through  and  is  glad  of  it,  and  so 
are  we. 

The  Presbyterian  Sunday  is  the  longest  and 
solemnest,  and  I  always  write  a  new  story  in 
my  mind  when  Dr.  Moffett  preaches.  He  is 
very  learned,  and  knows  Hebrew  and  Latin  and 
Greek,  but  not  much  about  little  girls. 

Poor  Mrs.  Blamire;  she  tries  to  keep  awake, 
but  she  can't  do  it;  and  after  the  first  five 
minutes  she  puffs  away  just  as  regular  as  if 

45 


MARY   GARY 

she  were  wound  up.  Once  I  shut  my  eyes  and 
tried  to  puff  like  her,  but  I  forgot  to  be  care 
ful,  and  did  it  so  loud  the  girls  came  near  get 
ting  in  trouble.  Dr.  Moffett  is  deaf,  and  didn't 
hear.  Miss  Bray  heard. 

But  the  Baptist  minister  don't  let  you  sleep 
on  his  Sunday.  He  used  to  try  to  make  the 
girls  come  up  and  profess,  but  now  he  don't 
ask  even  that.  Just  sit  where  you  are  and 
hold  up  your  hand,  and  when  you  join  the 
church — any  church  will  answer — you  are 
saved.  I  don't  understand  it. 

We  all  like  the  Methodist  minister.  I  don't 
think  he  knows  many  dead  languages.  He 
don't  have  much  time  to  study,  being  so  busy 
helping  people;  but  he  knows  how  to  talk  to 
us  children,  and  he  always  makes  me  wish  I 
wasn't  so  bad.  He  always  does,  and  the  Mary 
part  of  me  just  rises  right  up  on  his  Sunday, 
and  Martha  is  ashamed  of  herself.  He  be 
lieves  in  getting  better  by  the  love  way.  So 
do  I. 

Miss  Katherine  is  going  away  next  week  to 
stay  two  months.  Going  to  her  army  brother's 
first,  and  then  to  the  California  brother,  who's 
North  somewhere.  And  from  the  time  she  told 
me  I've  felt  like  Robinson  Crusoe's  daughter 

46 


THE  STEPPED-ON  AND  STEPPERS 

would  have  felt,  if  he'd  had  one,  and  gone  off 
and  left  her  on  that  desert  island. 

I  don't  know  what  we're  going  to  do  when 
she  goes  away.  I  could  shed  gallons  of  tears, 
only  I  don't  like  tears,  and  then,  too,  she  might 
see  me.  I  want  her  to  think  I'm  glad  she's 
going,  for  she  needs  a  change.  But,  oh,  the  dif 
ference  her  going  will  make! 

I  will  be  nothing  but  Martha.  I  know  it. 
Nothing  but  Martha  until  she  comes  back. 
The  Mary  part  of  me  is  so  sick  at  the  thought 
she  hasn't  any  backbone,  and  Martha  is  show 
ing  signs  already. 

And  that  shows  I'm  just  nothing,  for  Miss 
Katherine  has  taught  us,  without  exactly  tell 
ing,  how  we  can't  do  what  we  ought  by  want 
ing.  We've  got  to  work.  In  plain  words,  its 
watch  and  pray,  and  with  me  it's  the  watching 
that's  most  important.  If  I'm  not  on  the  look 
out,  and  don't  nab  Martha  right  away,  praying 
don't  have  any  effect.  I'm  a  natural  pray-er, 
but  on  watching  I'm  poor. 

I  couldn't  make  any  one  understand  what 
Miss  Katherine  has  done  for  us  since  she's  been 
here.  Some  words  don't  tell  things.  The 
nursing  when  we're  sick  is  only  a  part,  and 
though  she's  fixed  up  one  of  the  rooms  just 

47 


MARY   GARY 

like  a  hospital-room,  with  everything  so  white 
and  clean  and  sweet  in  it  that  it's  real  joy  to  be 
sick,  we're  not  sick  often. 

It's  the  keeping  us  well  that's  kept  her  so 
busy.  She's  explained  so  many  things  to  us 
we  didn't  know  before,  she's  almost  made 
me  like  my  body.  I  didn't  use  to.  Not 
a  bit. 

It's  such  a  nuisance,  and  needs  so  much  at 
tention  to  keep  it  going  right.  So  often  it  was 
freezing  cold,  or  blazing  hot,  or  hungry,  and 
had  to  be  dressed  in  such  ugly  clothes  that  I 
was  ashamed  of  it.  And  if  ever  I  could  have 
hung  it  up  in  the  closet  or  put  it  away  in  a 
bureau  -  drawer,  I  would  have  done  it  while  I 
went  out  and  had  a  good  time.  But  I  couldn't 
do  it.  I  had  to  take  it  everywhere  I  went, 
and  until  Miss  Katherine  came  I  had  mighty 
little  use  for  it. 

But  since  she's  been  here  the  girls  are  much 
cleaner,  and  we  don't  mind  so  much  not  having 
the  things  to  eat  that  we  like.  That  is,  not 
quite  so  much.  But  almost.  When  you're 
downright  hungry  for  the  taste  of  things,  it 
don't  satisfy  to  say  to  yourself:  "You  don't 
really  need  it.  Be  quiet."  And  being  made 
of  flesh  and  blood,  most  of  us  would  rather  eat 

48 


THE  STEPPED-ON  AND  STEPPERS 

the  things  we  want  to  than  the  things  we 
ought  to. 

But  the  dining-room  is  much  nicer.  We  have 
flowers  on  the  table,  and  the  cooking  is  better, 
though  we  still  have  prunes. 

I  loathe  prunes. 


V 


"HERE  COMES  THE  BRIDE!" 

KNEW  when  Miss  Katherine  left  I'd 
be  nothing  but  Martha.  That's  what 
I've  been — Martha. 

She  hadn't  been  gone  two  days  when 
Mary  gave  up,  and  as  prompt  as  pos 
sible  Martha  invented  trouble. 
It  was  this  way.  In  the  summer  we  have 
much  more  time  than  in  the  winter,  and  the 
children  kept  coming  to  me  asking  me  to  make 
up  something,  and  all  of  a  sudden  a  play  came 
in  my  mind.  I  just  love  acting.  The  play  was 
to  be  the  marriage  of  Dr.  Rudd  and  Miss  Bray. 
You  see,  Miss  Bray  is  dead  in  love  with  Dr. 
Rudd — really  addled  about  him.  And  when 
ever  he  comes  tb~see  any  of  the  children  who 
are  sick  she  is  so  solicitous  and  sweet  and 
smiley  that  we  call  her,  to  ourselves,  Ipecac 
Mollie.  Other  days,  plain  Mollie  Cottontail.  It 
seemed  to  me  if  we  could  just  think  him  into 


"HERE   COMES    THE   BRIDE!" 

marrying  her,  it  would  be  the  best  work  we'd 
ever  done,  and  I  thought  it  was  worth  try 
ing. 

They  say  if  you  just  think  and  think  and 
think  about  a  thing  you  can  make  somebody 
else  think  about  it,  too.  And  not  liking  Dr. 
Rudd,  we  didn't  mind  thinking  her  on  him, 
and  so  we  began.  Every  day  we'd  meet  for 
an  hour  and  think  together,  and  each  one 
promised  to  think  single,  and  in  between  times 
we  got  ready. 

Becky  Drake  says  love  goes  hard  late  in  life, 
and  sometimes  touches  the  brain.  Maybe  that 
accounts  for  Miss  Bray. 

She  is  fifty- three  years  old,  and  gll  frazzled 
out  and  done  up  with  adjuncts."'  But  Dr. 
Rudd,  being  a  man  with  not  even  usual  sense, 
and  awful  conceited,  don't  see  what  we  see, 
and  swallows  easy.  Men  are  funny — funny  as 
some  women. 

I  don't  think  he's  ever  thought  of  courting 
Miss  Bray.  But  she's  thought  of  it,  and  for 
once  we  truly  tried  to  help  her. 

Well,  we  got  ready,  beginning  two  days  after 
Miss  Katherine  left,  and  the  play  came  off 
Friday  night,  the  third  of  July.  In  conse 
quence  of  that  play  I  have  been  in  a  retreat, 


MARY   GARY 

and  on  the  Fourth  of  July  I  made  a  New- Year 
resolution. 

I  resolved  I  would  do  those  things  I  should  not 
do,  and  leave  undone  the  things  I  should.  I 
would  not  disappoint  Miss  Bray.  She  looked  for 
things  in  me  to  worry  her.  She  should  find  them. 

Well,  I  was  in  that  top-story  summer-resort 
for  ten  days.  Put  there  for  reflection.  I  re 
flected.  And  on  the  difference  between  Miss 
Katherine  and  Miss  Bray. 

But  the  play  was  a  corker;  it  certainly  was. 
We  chose  Friday  night  because  Miss  Jones  al 
ways  takes  tea  with  her  aunt  that  night,  and 
Miss  Bray  goes  to  choir  practising.  I  wish 
everybody  could  hear  her  sing!  Gabriel  ought 
to  engage  her  to  wake  the  dead,  only  they'd 
want  to  die  again. 

Dr.  Rudd  is  in  the  choir,  and  she  just  lives 
on  having  Friday  nights  to  look  forward  to. 

The  ceremony  took  place  in  the  basement- 
room  where  we  play  in  bad  weather.  It's 
across  from  the  dining-room,  the  kitchen  being 
between,  and  it's  a  right  nice  place  to  march 
in,  being  long  and  narrow. 

I  was  the  preacher,  and  Prudence  Arch  and 
Nita  Polley,  Emma  Clark  and  Margaret  Wither- 
spoon  were  the  bridesmaids. 

52 


"HERE   COMES   THE   BRIDE!" 

Lizzie  Wyatt  was  the  bride,  and  Katie  Free 
man,  who  is  the  tallest  girl  in  the  house,  though 
only  fourteen,  was  the  groom. 

Katie  is  so  thin  she  would  do  as  well  for  one 
thing  in  this  life  as  another,  so  we  made  her 
Dr.  Rudd. 

We  didn't  have  but  two  men.  Miss  Webb  says 
they're  really  not  necessary  at  weddings,  except 
the  groom  and  the  minister.  Nobody  notices 
them,  and,  besides,  we  couldn't  get  the  pants. 

I  was  an  Episcopal  minister,  so  I  wouldn't 
need  any.  Mrs.  Blamire's  raincoat  was  the 
gown,  and  I  cut  up  an  old  petticoat  into  strips, 
and  made  bands  to  go  down  the  front  and 
around  my  neck.  Loulie  Prentiss  painted  some 
crosses  and  marks  on  them  with  gilt,  so  as  to 
make  me  look  like  a  Bishop.  I  did.  A  little 
cent  one. 

There  wasn't  any  trouble  about  my  costume, 
because  I  could  soap  my  hair  and  make  it  lie 
flat,  and  put  on  the  robe,  and  there  I  was. 
But  how  to  get  a  pair  of  pants  for  Katie  Free 
man  was  a  puzzle. 

Nothing  male  lives  in  the  Humane.  Not 
even  a  billy-goat.  We  couldn't  borrow  pants, 
knowing  it  wouldn't  be  safe;  and  what  to  do 
I  couldn't  guess. 

53 


MARY   GARY 

Well,  the  day  came,  and,  still  wondering 
where  those  pants  were  to  come  from,  I  went 
out  in  the  yard  where  a  man  was  painting  -a- 
window-shutter  that  had  blown  off  a  back 
window.  Right  before  my  eyes  was  the  wood- 
house  door  wide  open,  and  something  said  to 
me: 

-Walk  in." 

I  walked  in ;  and  there  in  a  corner  on  a  wood 
pile  was  a  real  nice  pair  of  pants,  -and  a  collar 
and  cravat,  and  a  coat  and  a  tin  lunch-bucket, 
which  had  been  eaten — the  lunch  had.  And 
when  I  saw  those  pants  I  knew  Katie  Freeman 
was  fixed. 

They  belonged  to  the  man  who  was  painting 
the  shutter.  , 

It  was  an  awful  hot  day,  and '  he  had  taken 
them  off  in  the  woodhouse  and  put  on  his  over 
alls,  and  when  he  wasn't  looking  I  slipped  out 
with  them,  and  went  up  to  Miss  Bray's  room. 
She  was  down-stairs  talking  to  Miss  Jones,  and 
I  hid  them  under  the  mattress  of  her  bed. 

I  knew  when'  she  'found  they  were  missing 
she'd  turn  to  me  to  know  where  they  were. 
No  matter  what  went  wrong,  from  the  cat 
having  kittens  or  the  chimney  smoking,  she 
looked  to  me  as  the  cause.  And  if  there  was 

54 


"HERE   COMES    THE   BRIDE!" 

to  be  any  searching,  No.  4 — I  sleep  in  No.  4 
when  Miss  Katherine  is  away— would  be  the 
first  thing  searched.  So  I  put  them  under  her 
bed. 

I  wish  Miss  Katherine  could  have  seen  that 
man  about  six  o'clock,  when  the  time  came  for 
him  to  go  home.  She  would  have  laughed,  too. 
She  couldn't  have  helped  it. 

He  is  young,  and  Bermuda,  Ray  says  he  is  in 
love  with  Gallic  Payne,  who  lives  just  down 
the  street.  He  has  to  pass  her  house  going 
home,  and  I  guess  that's  the  reason  he  wore 
his  good  clothes  and  took  them  off  so  carefully. 
But  whether  that  was  it  or  not,  he  was  the 
rippenest,  maddest  man  I  ever  saw  in  my  life 
when  he  went  to  put  on  his  pants  and  there 
were  none  to  put. 

I  almost  rolled  off  the  porch  up-stairs,  where 
I  was  watching.  I  never  did  know  before  how 
much  a  man  thinks  of  his  pants. 

He  soon  had  Miss  Bray  and  Miss  Jones  and  a 
lot  of  the  girls  out  in  the  yard,  and  everybody 
was  talking  at  once ;  and  then  I  heard  him  say : 

"But  I  tell  you,  Miss  Bray,  I  put  'em  here, 
right  on  this  woodpile.  And  where  are  they? 
You  run  this  place,  and  you  are  responsible 
for—" 

55 


MARY   GARY 

"Not  for  pants."  And  Miss  Bray's  voice 
was  so  shrill  it  sounded  like  a  broken  whistle. 
"I'm  responsible  for  no  man's  pants.  Wheir~ 
a  man  can't  take  care  of  his  pants,  he  shouldn't 
have  them.  Besides,  you  shouldn't  have  left 
yours  in  the  woodhouse  when  working  in  a 
Female  Orphan  Asylum."  And  she  glared  so 
at  him  that  the  poor  male  thing  withered,  and 
blushed  real  beautiful. 

He's  a  pretty  young  man,  and  I  felt  sorry  for 
him  when  Miss  Bray  snapped  so.  I  certainly  did. 

"My  overalls  are  my  working -pants,"  he 
said,  real  meek-like,  and  his  voice  was  trembling 
so  I  thought  he  was  going  to  cry.  "It's  very 
strange  that  in  a  place  like  this  a  man's  clothes 
are  not  safe.  I  thought — " 

"Well,  you  had  no  business  thinking.  Next 
time  keep  your  pants  on."  And  Miss  Bray, 
who's  good  on  a  bluff,  pretended  like  she  had 
been  truly  injured,  and  the  poor  little  painter 
sat  down. 

Presently  his  face  changed,  as  if  a  thought 
had  come  into  his  mind  from  a  long  way  off, 
and  he  said,  in  another  kind  of  voice : 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Bray.  I  believe 
I  know  who  done  it.  It's  a  friend  of  mine  who 
tries  to  be  funny  every  now  and  then,  and 

56 


"HERE   COMES    THE   BRIDE!" 

calls  it  joking.  I'll  choke  his  liver  out  of  him!" 
And  he  settled  himself  on  the  woodpile  to  wait 
until  dark  before  he  went  home. 

If  anybody  thinks  that  wedding  was  slumpy, 
they  think  wrong.  It  was  tnnlly.  When  the 
bride  and  groom  and  the  bridesmaids  came  in, 
all  the  girls  were  standing  in  rows  on  either 
side  of  the  walls,  making  an  aisle  in  between, 
and  they  sang  a  wedding-song  I  had  invented 
from  my  heart. 

It  was  to  the  Lohengrin  tune,  which  is  a  lit 
tle  wobbly  for  words,  but  they  got  them  in 
all  right,  keeping  time  with  their  hands.  These 
are  the  words: 


Here  comes  the  Bride, 

God  save  the  Groom! 

And  please  don't  let  any  chil-i-il-dren  come, 

For  they  don't  know 

How  children  feel, 

Nor  do  they  know  how  with  chil-dren  to  deal. 


She's  still  an  old  maid, 

Though  she  would  not  have  been 

Could  she  have  mar-ri-ed  any  kind  of  man. 

But  she  could  not. 

So  to  the  Humane 

She  came,  and  caus-ed  a  good  deal  of  pain. 

*  57 


MARY   GARY 

^L      ,       -,,     :  3 

But  now  she's  here 

To  be  married,  and  go 

Away  with  her  red-headed,  red-bearded  beau. 

Have  mercy,  Lord, 

And  help  him  to  bear 

What  we've  been  doing  this  many  a  year! 

And  such  singing!  We'd  been  practising  in  the 
back  part  of  the  yard,  and  humming  in  bed,  so 
as  to  get  the  words  into  the  tune ;  but  we  hadn't 
let  out  until  that  night.  That  night  we  let  go. 

There's  nothing  like  singing  from  your  heart, 
and,  though  I  was  the  minister  and  stood  on  a 
box  which  was  shaky,  I  sang,  too.  I  led. 

The  bride  didn't  think  it  was  modest  to 
hold  up  her  head,  and  she  was  the  only  silent 
one.  But  the  bridegroom  and  bridesmaids  sang, 
and  it  sounded  like  the  revivals  at  the  Methodist 
church.  It  was  grand. 

And  that  bride!  She  was  Miss  Bray.  A 
graven  image  of  her  couldn't  have  been  more 
like  her. 

She  was  stuffed  in  the  right  places,  and  her 
hair  was  f-riszed  just  like  Miss  Bray's.  Frizzed 
in  front,  and  slick  and  tight  in  the  back;  and 
her  face  was  a  purple  pink,  and  powdered  all 
over,  with  a  piece  of  dough  just  above  her 

58 


"HERE   COMES   THE   BRIDE!" 

mouth  on  the  left  side  to  correspond  with 
Miss  Bray's  mole. 

And  she  held  herself  so  like  her,  shoulders 
back,  and  making  that  little  nervous  sniffle 
with  her  nose,  like  Miss  Bray  makes  when  she's 
excited,  that  once  I  had  to  wink  at  her  to  stop. 

The  groom  didn't  look  like  Dr.  Rudd.  But 
she  wore  men's  clothes,  and  that's  the  only 
way  you'd  know  some  men  were  men,  and 
almost  anything  will  do  for  a  groom.  Nobody 
noticed  him. 

We  were  getting  on  just  grand,  and  I  was 
marrying  away,  telling  them  what  they  must 
do  and  what  they  mustn't.  Particularly  that 
they  mustn't  get  mad  and  leave  each  other, 
for  Yorkburg  was  very  old-fashioned  and  didn't 
like  changes,  and  would  rather  stick  to  its  mis 
takes  than  go  back  on  its  word.  And  then  I 
turned  to  the  bride. 

"Miss  Bray,"  I  said,  "have  you  told  this 
man  you  are  marrying  that  you  are  two-faced 
and  underhand,  and  can't  be  trusted  to  tell  the 
truth?  Have  you  told  him  that  nobody  loves 
you,  and  that  for  years  you  have  tried  to  pass 
for  a  lamb,  when  you  are  an  old  sheep?  And 
does  he  know  that  though  you're  a  good  man 
ager  on  little  and  are  not  lazy,  that  your  tem- 

59 


MARY   GARY 

per's  been  ruined  by  economizing,  and  that  at 
times,  if  you  were  dead,  there 'd  be  no  place 
for  you?  Peter  wouldn't  pass  you,  and  the 
devil  wouldn't  stand  you.  And  does  he  know 
he's  buying  a  pig  in  a  bag,  and  that  the  best 
wedding  present  he  could  give  you  would  be 
a  set  of  new  teeth?  And  will  you  promise  to 
stop  pink  powder'  and  clean  your  finger-nails 
every  day?  And — " 

But  I  got  no  further,  for  something  made  me 
look  up,  and  there,  standing  in  the  door,  was 
the  real  Miss  Bray. 

All  I  said  was — "Let  us  pray!" 


VI 


MY   LADY   OF   THE   LOVELY   HEART*' 

[EAUTIFUL  gloriousness!    Miss  Kath- 
erine  has  come  back ! 

What  a  different  place  some  people 
can  make  the  same  place ! 

Yesterday  there  wasn't  an  interest 
ing  thing  in  Yorkburg.  Nothing  but 
dust  and  shabby  old  houses  and  poky  people 
who  knew  nothing  to  talk  about,  and  to-day — 
oh,  to-day  it's  dear!  I  love  it! 

You  see,  after  that  wedding  everything  went 
wrong.  The  girls  said  it  wasn't  fair  for  me  to 
be  punished  so  much  more  than  the  rest,  and 
they  wanted  to  tell  the  Board  about  it;  but 
for  once  I  agreed  with  Miss  Bray. 

"I  did  it.  I  made  it  up  and  fixed  everything, 
and  you  all  just  agreed,"  I  said.  "And  if  any 
body  has  to  pay,  I'm  the  one  to  do  it."  And 
I  paid  all  right.  Paid  to  the  full. 

But  it's  over  now,  and  I'm  not  going  to  think 
61 


MARY   GARY 

about  it  any  more.  When  a  thing  is  over,  that 
should  be  the  end  of  it,  Miss  Katherine  says, 
and  with  me  what  she  says  goes. 

Miss  Bray  is  away.  If  some  of  her  relations 
liked  her  well  enough  to  have  her  stay  a  few 
months  with  them,  she  could  get  leave  of 
absence;  but  she's  never  been  known  to  stay 
but  four  weeks.  She's  gone  to  visit  her  sister 
somewhere  in  Fauquier  County.  Her  sister's 
husband  always  leaves  home  for  his  health 
when  she  arrives,  and  Miss  Bray  says  she  thinks 
it's  so  queer  he  has  the  same  kind  of  spells 
at  the  same  time  every  year. 

But  now  Miss  Katherine 's  back,  nothing  mat 
ters.  Nothing! 

Yesterday  I  was  just  a  squirrel  in  a  cage. 
All  day  long  I  was  saying:  "Well,  Squirrel,  turn 
your  little  wheel.  That's  all  you  can  do ;  turn 
your  little  wheel."  And  inside  I  was  turning 
as  hard  and  fast  as  a  sure-enough  squirrel  turns ; 
but  outside  I  was  just  mechanical. 

I  wonder  sometimes  I  don't  blaze  up  right 
before  people's  eyes.  I'm  so  often  on  fire — that 
is,  my  mind  and  heart  are — that  I  think  at  times 
my  body  will  surely  catch.  Thus  far  it  hasn't, 
but  if  I  don't  go  somewhere,  see  something,  do 
something  different,  it's  apt  to,  and  the  doctors 

62 


-MY  LADY  OF  THE  LOVELY  HEART" 

won't  have  a  name  for  the  new  kind  of  in 
flammation. 

I'm  going  to  die  after  a  while,  and  I'm  so 
afraid  I  will  do  it  before  I  travel  some  that 
if  I  were  a  boy  child  I'd  go  anyhow.  But  I 
can't  go.  That  is,  not  yet. 

Miss  Katherine  has  been  travelling  for  two 
months  up  North.  She's  been  with  her  brother 
and  his  wife.  The  wife  is  sick,  or  she  thinks 
she  is,  which  Miss  Katherine  says  is  a  hard 
disease  to  cure,  and  she's  kept  them  moving 
from  place  to  place. 

They  wanted  Miss  Katherine  to  go  to  Europe 
with  them  this  fall,  but  she  isn't  going.  She's 
been  twice,  and  says  she  don't  want  to  go. 
But  I  don't  believe  it's  that.  I  believe  it's 
something  else. 

But  sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  happiness 
thereof!  I'm  going  to  enjoy  her  staying,  and 
already  everything  seems  different. 

You  see,  Miss  Katherine  lives  here  just  for 
love,  and  when  you  do  things  for  Jove  you  do 
them  differently  from  the  way  you  do  them 
for  money. 

We  are  just  Charity  children,  some  not  know 
ing  who  they  are,  I  being  one  of  that  kind;  but 
she  never  treats  us  as  if  she  thinks  of  that.  If 

63 


MARY    GARY 

we  were  relations  she  liked,  she  couldn't  be 
kinder  or  nicer,  and  when  a  child  is  in  trouble 
Miss  Katherine  is  the  one  that's  gone  to  at 
once. 

She  is  never  too  tired  or  too  busy  to  listen, 
but  she's  awful  firm;  and  there's  no  nonsense 
or  sullenness  or  shamming  where  she  is.  She 
can  see  through  the  insides  of  your  soul,  up 
to  the  top  and  down  to  the  tip,  and  in  front 
of  her  eyes  you  are  just  your  plain  self.  Only 
that,  and  nothing  more.  They  are  gray,  her 
eyes  are,  with  a  dark  rim  around  the  gray  part ; 
and  she  has  the  longest  black  lashes  I  ever  saw. 
Her  hair  is  black,  too,  like  an  Eastern  Princess, 
and  in  the  morning  when  she  puts  her  cap  on 
and  her  nurse's  white  dress,  which  she  wears 
when  on  duty,  I  call  her  to  myself,  "My  Lady 
of  the  Lovely  Heart,"  and  I  could  kneel  down 
and  say  my  prayers  to  her. 

I  don't,  though,  for  she  would  tell  me  pretty 
quick  to  get  up.  She  doesn't  like  things  like 
that,  and,  of  course,  it  would  look  queer. 

But  I  don't  know  anybody  who  isn't  queer 
about  something.  Either  stupid  queer,  or  silly 
queer,  or  smart  queer,  or  beautiful  queer,  or  re 
ligious  queer,  or  selfish  queer,  or  some  other  kind. 

Miss  Bray  is  the  Queen  of  Queers. 
64 


"MY  LADY  OF  THE  LOVELY  HEART" 

But  Miss  Katherine  is  queer,  too.  If  she  wasn't, 
she  wouldn't  stay  at  this  Orphan  Asylum,  just 
to  help  us  children,  and  doing  it  as  cheerfully 
as  if  she  were  happier  here  than  she  would  be 
anywhere  else.  If  her  staying  isn't  queerness, 
beautiful  queerness,  what  is  it? 

I  don't  understand  it,  and  I  don't  believe  I 
ever  will  understand  how  any  one  who  can  get 
ice-cream  will  take  prunes. 

But  Miss  Katherine  has  got  a  way  of  see 
ing  the  funny  side  of  things,  and  sometimes  I 
can't  tell  whether  she  minds  prunes  and  pruny 
things  or  not. 

I'm  sure  she  does,  but  she  says,  when  you  can't 
change  a  thing,  don't  let  it  change  you,  and  that 
an  inward  disposition  is  hard  on  other  people. 

I  don't  know  what  that  means,  but  I  think 
it's  the  same  as  saying  there's  no  use  in  always 
chewing  the  rag.  Martha  is  right  much  in 
clined  to  be  a  chewer. 

Miss  Webb  is,  too.  She  is  Miss  Katherine's 
best  friend,  and  I  just  love  to  hear  her  talk. 

She  always  comes  once  a  week,  often  twice, 
to  spend  the  evening  at  the  Asylum  with  Miss 
Katherine,  and  sometimes  when  they  think  I'm 
asleep,  I'm  not.  I'd  be  a  nuisance  if  I  kept  pop 
ping  up  and  saying,  "I'm  not  asleep,  speak  low." 

65 


MARY    GARY 

So  when  I  can't,  really  can't,  sleep,  though  I  do 
try,  I  hear  them  talking,  and  the  things  Miss 
Webb  says  are  a  great  relief  to  my  feelings. 

She  doesn't  come  to  supper,  orphan-asylum 
suppers  being  refreshments  to  stay  from,  not 
come  to,  but  nearly  always  they  make  some 
thing  on  a  chafing-dish.  Something  that's  good, 
painful  good. 

Miss  Webb  says  Miss  Katherine's  stomach 
has  some  rights,  which  is  true;  and  when  they 
begin  to  cook,  I  just  sleep  away,  breathing 
regular  and  easy,  so  they  won't  know  I  am 
awake,  for  fear  they  might  think  I  am  not 
asleep  on  purpose. 

But  I  have  to  hold  on  to  the  bed  and  stuff 
my  ears  and  nose  so  as  not  to  hear  and  smell, 
for  I  am  that  hungry  I  could  eat  horse  if  it  had 
Worcestershire  sauce  on  it.  And  that  is  what 
they  put  in  their  things,  which  shows  that  in 
eating,  even,  Miss  Katherine  preaches  sense  and 
practises  taste. 

Miss  Webb  just  laughs  at  theories,  and  brings 
all  sorts  of  good  things  with  her.  She  says 
doctors  have  wronged  more  stomachs  than 
they've  ever  righted  by  all  this  dieting  business, 
and,  while  there's  sense  in  some  of  it,  there's  more 
nonsense ;  and  as  for  her,  she  don't  believe  in  it. 

66 


"MY  LADY  OF  THE  LOVELY  HEART" 

I  don't  know  anything  about  it ;  but  I  don't, 
either. 

They  always  save  me  some  of  whatever  they 
make,  which  I  get  the  next  day.  But  if  I  could 
rise  out  of  bed  and  eat  as  much  as  I  want  out 
of  that  chafing-dish,  there  would  be  a  funeral 
Miss  Bray  would  like  to  attend.  The  corpse 
would  be  Mary  Gary,  died  Martha. 

There  is  a  screen  at  the  foot  of  my  bed,  put 
there  so  the  light  won't  bother  me  and  so  I 
won't  be  seen.  And,  thinking  I  am  asleep, 
Miss  Katherine  and  Miss  Webb  talk  on  as  if  I 
were  dead ;  and  it's  very  interesting  the  things 
they  talk  about. 

Of  course,  Miss  Webb  came  over  last  night, 
and,  after  talking  about  two  hours,  she  said: 
"Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  Lizzie  Lane  is  going 
to  marry  Bob  Rogers,  and  right  away.  I  don't 
suppose  you've  heard." 

"Yes,  I  have;  Lizzie  wrote  me."  And  Miss 
Katherine  took  the  hair-pins  out  of  her  hair 
and  let  it  fall  down  her  back.  "What  made 
her  change  her  mind?  What  is  she  marrying 
him  for?" 

"How  do  I  know?"  And  Miss  Webb  tasted 
the  chocolate  to  see  if  it  was  sweet  enough. 

"How  does  anybody  know  what  a  man  is 
67 


MARY   GARY 

married  for?  In  most  cases  you  can't  risk  a 
guess.  Lizzie  is  a  woman,  therefore  'hath  rea 
son  or  unreason  for  her  act/  ' 

"How  did  it  happen  ?  What  made  her  change 
her  mind?"  and  Miss  Katherine  threw  her  hair 
pins  on  the  bureau  and  stooped  down  to  get  her 
slippers.  "  How  does  "Lizzie  explain  it?" 

"She  says  she  was  so  sleepy  she  doesn't  re 
member  whether  she  said  yes  or  no.  But  Bob 
remembers,  and  the  wedding  is  to  be  week  after 
next.  He's  courted  her  three  times  a  year  for 
seven  years;  but  since  he's  been  living  North 
he  hasn't  even  written  to  her,  and  she  didn't 
know  he  was  in  town  until  he  came  up  that 
night  to  see  her. 

"He  stayed  until  after  one  o'clock,  and  didn't 
mention  marriage.  But  as  he  got  up  to  go  he 
told  her  his  house  was  going  to  send  him  on  a 
six  months'  trip  to  Japan.  If  she  would  marry 
him  and  go,  say  so.  If  not,  say  that,  too,  but 
for  the  last  time.  Lizzie  said  she'd  go." 

Miss  Katherine  fastened  her  kimono,  put  her 
feet  up  on  the  chair  in  front  of  her,  and  clasped 
her  hands  behind  her  head. 

"I  don't  wonder  at  the  unhappy  marriages," 
she  said.  "The  queer  part  is  there  aren't  more 
of  them.  Why  did  Bob  wait  eight  years  to  talk 

68 


"MY  LADY  OF  THE  LOVELY  HEART" 

to  Lizzie  like  this?  Why  is  it  a  man  has  so 
little  understanding  of  a  woman?" 

1  'Why?  Because  he's  a  Man.  The  Lord  made 
him,  and  there  must  be  some  reason  for  him; 
but  even  the  Lord  must  sometimes  get  worn 
out  at  his  dumbness.  However — " 

She  stopped,  for  the  chocolate  was  boiling 
over;  then  she  began  to  sing: 

"Before  marriage,  men  love  most. 
After  marriage,  women  best. 
Marriage  many  changes  makes — 
Heart  is  happy  or  heart  breaks." 

And  she  sang  it  so  many  times  that  I  went 
to  sleep  and  dreamed  the  dream  I  love  most. 

I  see  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  little  creat 
ures  (they  are  the  Mary  part  of  little  children), 
and  they  are  afraid  and  shivering  and  stand 
ing  about,  not  knowing  where  to  go  or  what  to 
do.  And  then  Miss  Katherine  is  in  the  midst 
of  them,  smiling  and  beckoning,  and  they  fol 
low  and  follow,  and  wings  come  out.  Just  tiny 
ones  at  first,  and  then  larger  and  larger,  and 
presently  they  fly  all  around  her,  and  she  points 
the  way,  smiling  and  cheering. 

And  then  they  rise  higher  and  higher,  and  off 
they  go,  and  she  is  alone.  Tired  out  but  glad, 
because  she  taught  them  how  to  use  their  wings. 

69 


VII 


1  STERILIZED   AND   FERTILIZED 

jHIS  is  Sunday,  and  we  have  done  all 
the  usual  Sunday  things.  There  won't 
be  another  for  seven  days.  For  that 
we  give  thanks  in  our  hearts,  but  not 
out  loud. 

This  was  Presbyterian  Sunday.   Miss 
Bray  is  a  Presbyterian. 

It  is  a  solemn  thing  to  be  a  Presbyterian, 
and  easy  for  the  mind,  too.  Everything  is 
fixed,  and  there  is  no  unfixing.  You  are  saved 
or  you  are  not  saved,  and  you  will  never  know 
which  it  is  until  after  you  are  dead  and  find  out. 
Miss  Bray  believes  she  is  saved,  and  she  takes 
liberties.  She  also  thinks  everything  is  as  God 
ordered  it,  and  she  believes  God  ordered  poor 
Mrs.  Craddock  to  die — that  is,  took  her  away. 
I  don't.  I  think  it  was  that  last  baby. 

She  had  had  twelve,  and  the  thirteenth  just 
wore  her  out  at  the  thought.  There  being  no 
body  to  do  anything  for  her,  she  got  up  and 

70 


"STERILIZED   AND    FERTILIZED" 

cooked  breakfast  in  her  stocking  feet  when  the 
baby  was  only  a  week  old,  and  that  night  she 
had  the  influenza,  and  the  next  pneumonia. 
On  the  sixth  day  she  was  dead,  and  so  was  the 
baby.  They  forgot  to  feed  it. 

I  don't  believe  God  ever  took  any  mothers 
away  intentional.  He  never  would  have  made 
them  so  necessary  if  He  had  meant  to  take  them 
away  when  they  were  most  needed.  When 
they  go  I  believe  He  is  sorry. 

I  don't  know  how  to  explain  it.  Nobody 
does,  though  a  lot  try.  But  I  know  He  sees  it 
bigger  than  we  do,  and  maybe  He  is  working  at 
something  that  isn't  finished  yet. 

Minnie  Peters  is  real  sick.  Miss  Katherine 
has  put  her  in  the  hospital-room,  and  is  staying 
in  there  with  her. 

I  am  all  alone  by  myself  to-night.  I  don't 
like  aloneness  at  night.  It  makes  you  pay  too 
much  attention  to  your  feelings,  which  Miss 
Katherine  says  is  the  cause  of  more  trouble  in 
this  world  than  all  other  diseases  put  together. 

She  says,  too,  that  what  we  feel  about  a  thing 
is  very  often  different  from  the  way  other  peo 
ple  feel  about  it.  And  when  you  don't  agree 
with  people,  the  only  thing  you  can  be  sure 
about  is  that  they  don't  agree  with  you. 


MARY    GARY 

I  believe  that's  true.  Not  being  by  nature 
much  of  an  agree-er,  and  having  feelings  I  hope 
others  don't,  I  would  be  a  walking  argument  if 
Miss  Katherine  hadn't  stopped  me  and  ex 
plained  some  things  I  didn't  realize  before. 

Last  night,  being  by  myself,  and  not  being 
able  to  go  to  sleep,  I  wrote  a  piece  of  poetry. 

Miss  Katherine  says  it's  hard  to  forgive  people 
who  think  they  write  poetry,  so  I  won't  show 
her  this.  But  it  does  relieve  you  to  write  down 
a  lot  of  woozy  nothing  that  is  somehow  like 
you  feel.  This  is  the  poem — I  mean  the  verses : 


Out  upon  life's  ocean  vast, 
With  the  current  drifting  fast> 
I  am  sailing.     Oh,  alas, 
Tis  a  lonely  feeling! 


Why  was  such  a  trip  e'er  started 
On  a  pathway  all  uncharted? 
Why  from  loved  ones  was  I  parted? 
Who  will  answer?     Who? 

3 

None  will  answer.     So  I'll  see 
What  there  is  on  this  journej'  (journee) 
That  will  bring  good-luck  to  me — 
I'll  look  out  and  see! 

72 


"STERILIZED   AND   FERTILIZED" 

I  hope  Minnie  isn't  going  to  be  sick  long. 
She  is  the  first  girl  to  be  really  ill  since  Miss 
Katherine  came.  It  makes  you  feel  so  queer 
in  the  throat  to  know  somebody  is  truly  sick. 

A  lot  of  the  girls  have  been  sick  a  little  with 
colds  and  small  and  unserious  diseases  in  the 
past  year.  But  Miss  Katherine  says  it's  her 
business  to  keep  us  well,  not  just  get  us  well 
after  we're  sick,  and  she's  certainly  done  it. 
We've  been  weller  than  we  ever  were  in  our 
lives,  and  no  medicine  taken.  Just  plain  com 
mon-sense  regulations. 

I  wonder  what's  the  matter  with  Minnie? 
The  doctor  hasn't  said,  but  Miss  Katherine  is 
uneasy,  and  she  won't  let  anybody  come  in 
the  room.  She  hasn't  been  out  herself  since 
yesterday. 

My,  but  we've  had  a  time  lately! 

We've  been  fumigated  and  sterilized  and 
fertilized  so  much  that  we  are  better  prepared 
for  the  happy- land  than  we  ever  were  before. 
But  the  danger  of  anybody  going  to  it  right 
away  is  over. 

Minnie  Peters  has  had  scarlet  fever,  and  the 
commotion  made  her  real  famous. 

Miss  Katherine  knew  it  from  the  first,  but 
«  73 


MARY   GARY 

Dr.  Rudd  wouldn't  believe  it  until  he  had  to, 
and  Yorkburg  got  so  excited  it  hasn't  talked 
of  anything  else  for  weeks. 

Minnie  was  awful  ill.  Two  days  and  two 
nights  they  didn't  think  she  would  live,  and 
for  three  weeks  Miss  Katherine  didn't  leave  the 
room.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  her  Minnie  would 
be  dead. 

Miss  Katherine 's  room  has  been  closed  since 
they  first  found  out  it  was  really  scarlet  fever 
Minnie  had,  and  I  have  been  in  No.  4  again. 
She  is  going  away  to  spend  a  week  with  Miss 
Webb.  Going  to-morrow. 

I  am  so  glad  she  is  going.  All  of  us  are 
glad,  for  she  has  had  to  do  something  which 
shows  whether  you  are  a  Christ-kind  Christian 
or  the  usual  kind,  and  she  is  tired  out.  She 
won't  admit  it,  though,  and  laughs  and  kisses 
her  hand  over  the  banister,  which  is  ?11  the 
closer  we  have  seen  her  yet. 

Miss  Bray  was  scared  to  death.  She  didn't 
offer  to  share  the  nursing,  but  she  made  ex 
cuses  a-plenty  for  not  doing  it.  Miss  Bray  is  a 
church  Christian.  You  couldn't  make  her  miss 
going  to  church.  She  thinks  she'd  have  bad 
luck  if  she  did. 


VIII 

MARY  GARY'S  BUSINESS 

HIS  is  a  busy  time  of  the  year,  and 
things  are  moving.  I'm  in  business. 
The  Apple  and  Entertainment  busi 
ness. 

The  reason  I  went  in  business  was 
to  make  money,  and  the  money  was 
to  buy  Christmas  presents  with. 

I  didn't  have  a  cent.  Not  one.  Christmas 
was  coming.  Money  wasn't.  And  what's  the 
use  of  Christmas  if  you  can't  give  something 
to  somebody? 

Religion  is  the  only  thing  I  know  of  that  you 
can  get  without  money  and  without  price,  and 
even  that  you  can't  keep  without  both.  Not 
being  suitable  to  the  season,  I  couldn't  give  that 
away,  even  if  I  had  it  to  spare,  and  wondering 
what  to  do  almost  made  me  sick. 

I  thought  and  thought  until  my  brain  curdled. 
I  looked  over  everything  I  had  to  see  if  there 

75 


MARY   GARY 

was  a  thing  I  could  sell.  There  wasn't.  I 
couldn't  tell  Miss  Katherine,  knowing  she'd  fix 
up  some  way  to  give  me  some  and  pretend  I 
was  earning  it;  and  then,  one  day,  when  she 
was  out,  I  locked  myself  in  her  room,  and 
Martha  gave  Mary  such  a  spanking  talk  that 
Mary  moved. 

Everything  Martha  had  suggested  before, 
Mary  had  some  excuse  for  not  doing.  Mary  is 
lazy  at  times,  and,  as  for  pride,  she's  full  of  it. 
Martha  generally  gives  the  trouble,  but  Mary 
needs  plain  truth  every  now  and  then,  and  that 
day  she  got  it.  When  the  talk  was  over,  there 
was  a  plan  settled  on,  and  the  plan  was  this. 

Each  day  in  December  we  have  an  apple  for 
dinner.  Mr.  Riley  sends  us  several  barrels 
every  winter,  and,  as  they  won't  keep,  we  have 
one  apiece  until  they're  gone. 

We  don't  have  to  eat  them  at  the  table,  and 
when  Martha  told  Mary  you  could  do  any 
thing  you  wanted  if  you  wanted  to  hard 
enough — except  raise  the  dead,  of  course — the 
idea  came  that  I  could  sell  my  apple.  And 
right  away  came  the  thought  of  the  boy  I  could 
sell  it  to.  John  Maxwell  is  his  name. 

He  goes  to  our  Sunday-school  and  is  fifteen, 
and  croaks  like  a  bull-frog.  Ugly?  Pug-dog 

76 


MARY  CARYfS   BUSINESS 

ugly;  but  he's  awful  nice,  and  for  a  boy  has 
real  much  sense. 

His  father  owns  the  shoe-factory,  and  has 
plenty  of  money.  I  know,  for  he  told  me  he 
had  five  cents  every  day  to  get  something  for 
lunch,  and  fifty  cents  a  week  to  do  anything 
he  wants  with.  His  mother  gives  it  to  him. 

Well,  the  next  Sunday  he  came  over  to  talk, 
like  he  always  does  after  Sunday-school  is  out, 
and  I  said,  real  quick,  Mary  giving  signs  of 
silliness : 

"I'm  in  business.     Did  you  know  it?" 

"No,"  he  said.  "What  kind?  Want  a 
partner?" 

"I  don't.  I  want  customers.  I'm  in  the 
Apple  business.  I  have  an  apple  every  day. 
It's  for  sale.  Want  to  buy  it?" 

"What's  the  price?"  Then  he  laughed. 
"I'm  from  New  Jersey.  What's  it  worth?" 

"It's  worth  a  cent.  As  you're  from  New 
Jersey,  I  charge  you  two.  Take  it?" 

"I  do."  And  he  started  to  hand  the  money 
out. 

But  I  told  him  I  didn't  want  pay  in  advance. 
And  then  we  talked  over  how  the  apple  could 
be  put  where  he  could  get  it,  and  the  money 
where  I  could.  We  decided  on  a  certain  hole 

77 


MARY   GARY 

in  the  Asylum  fence  John  knew  about,  and 
every  evening  that  week  I  put  my  apple  there 
and  found  his  two  pennies.  On  Saturday  night 
I  had  fourteen  cents.  Wasn't  that  grand? 
Fourteen  cents! 

But  the  next  Sunday  there  came  near  being 
trouble.  Roper  Gordon — he's  John  Maxwell's 
cousin  —  had  heard  about  the  apple  selling. 
He  told  me  I  wasn't  charging  enough,  and 
that  he'd  pay  three  cents  for  it. 

"I'll  be  dogged  if  you  will,"  said  John.  "I'm 
cornering  that  apple,  and  I'll  meet  you.  I'll 
give  four." 

"All  right,"  I  said.  "I'm  in  business  to 
make  money.  I'm  not  charging  for  worth,  but 
for  want.  The  one  who  wants  it  most  will 
pay  most.  It  can  go  at  four." 

"No,  it  can't!"  said  Roper.  His  father  is 
rich,  too.  He's  the  Vice-President  of  the 
Factory,  and  Roper  puts  on  lots  of  airs.  He 
thinks  money  can  do  anything. 

"I'll  give  five.  Apples  in  small  lots  come 
high,  and  selected  ones  higher.  John  is  a  close 
buyer,  and  isn't  toting  square." 

"That's  a  lie!"  said  John,  and  he  lit  out  with 
his  right  arm  and  gave  Roper  such  a  blow  that 
my  heart  popped  right  out  on  my  tongue  and 

78 


MARY    GARY'S    BUSINESS 

sat  there.  Scared?  I  was  weak  as  a  dead 
cat. 

But  I  grabbed  John  and  pulled  him  behind 
me  before  Roper  could  hit  back,  and  then  in 
some  way  they  got  outside,  and  I  heard  after 
ward  John  beat  Roper  to  a  jelly. 

I  don't  blame  him.  If  any  one  were  to  say 
I  wasn't  square,  I'd  fight,  too. 

When  you  don't  fight,  it's  because  what  is 
said  is  true,  and  you're  afraid  it  will  be  found 
out.  And  a  coward.  Good  Lord! 

Anyhow,  after  that  I  got  five  cents  a  day 
for  my  apple.  John  put  six  cents  in,  raising 
Roper,  he  said,  but  I  wouldn't  keep  but  five. 

"I  can't,"  I  said.  "I  hate  my  conscience, 
for  even  in  business  it  pokes  itself  in.  But 
five  cents  is  all  I  can  take." 

"  Which  shows  you're  new  in  business,  or 
you'd  take  the  other  fellow's  skin  if  he  had  to 
have  what  you've  got.  And  I'm  bound  to  have 
that  apple.  Bound  to!"  And  he  dug  the  toe 
of  his  shoe  so  deep  in  the  dirt  he  could  have 
put  his  foot  in.  We  were  down  at  the  fence, 
where  I  went  to  tell  him  he  mustn't  leave  but 
five  cents  any  more. 

The  Apple  business  was  much  easier  than 
the  Entertainment  business;  but  I  enjoyed 

79 


MARY    GARY 

both.  Making  money  is  exciting.  I  guess 
that's  why  men  love  to  make  it. 

I  made  in  all  $2.34.  One  dollar  and  fifty 
cents  on  entertaining,  and  eighty-four  cents 
on  apples. 

The  entertaining  was  this  way.  Mrs.  Dick 
Moon  is  twin  to  the  lady  who  lived  in  a  shoe. 
Her  house  isn't  far  from  the  Asylum,  and  I  like 
her  real  much;  but  she  isn't  good  on  manage 
ment.  Everything  on  the  place  just  runs  over 
everything  else,  and  nothing  is  ever  ready  on 
time. 

She  has  money — that  is,  her  husband  has, 
which  Miss  Katherine  says  isn't  always  the 
same  thing.  And  she  has  servants  and  a  graph- 
ophone  and  a  pianola,  but  she  doesn't  really 
seem  to  have  anything  but  children,  and  they 
are  everywhere. 

They  are  the  sprawly  kind  that  lie  on  their 
stomachs  and  kick  their  heels,  and  get  under 
your  feet  and  on  your  back.  And  their  mouths 
always  have  molasses  or  sugar  in  the  corners, 
and  their  noses  have  colds,  and  their  hands  are 
that  sticky  they  leave  a  print  on  everything 
they  touch. 

But  they  aren't  mean-bad,  just  bad  because 
they  don't  know  what  to  do,  and  they  beg  me 

80 


MARY   GARY'S   BUSINESS 

to  stay  and  play  with  them  when  Miss  Jones 
sends  me  over  with  a  message.  Sometimes  I 
do,  and  the  day  Martha  gave  Mary  such  a 
rasping  about  making  money,  another  thought 
came  besides  the  apples,  and  I  went  that  after 
noon  to  see  Mrs.  Moon. 

"Mrs.  Moon,"  I  said,  "the  children  have 
colds  and  can't  go  out.  If  Miss  Bray  will  let 
me,  would  you  like  me  to  come  over  and  en 
tertain  them  during  our  play-hour?  It's  from 
half -past  four  to  half -past  five.  I'll  come  every 
day  from  now  until  Christmas,  and  I  charge 
twenty-five  cents  a  week  for  it." 

I  knew  my  face  was  rambler  red.  I  hated 
to  mention  money,  but  I  hated  worse  not  to 
have  any  to  buy  Miss  Katherine  a  present 
with.  If  she  thought  twenty -five  cents  a 
week  too  high  she  could  say  so.  But  she 
didn't. 

"Mercy,  Mary  Gary!"  she  said,  "do  you 
mean  it  ?  Would  I  like  you  to  come  ?  Would  I  ? 
I  wish  I  could  buy  you!"  And  she  threw  her 
arms  around  me  and  kissed  me  so  funny  I 
thought  she  was  going  to  cry. 

"Of  course  I  want  you,"  she  went  on,  after 
wiping  her  nose.  She  had  a  cold,  too.  "You 
can  manage  the  children  better  than  I,  and  if 

81 


MARY   GARY 

you  knew  what  one  quiet  hour  a  day  meant  to 
the  mother  of  seven,  all  under  twelve,  you'd 
charge  more  than  you're  doing.  I'll  see  Miss 
Bray  to-morrow." 

She  saw,  and  Miss  Bray  let  me  come. 

Mrs.  Moon  is  a  member  of  the  Board,  and 
Mr.  Moon  is  rich.  Miss  Bray  never  sleeps  in 
waking  time. 

Well,  when  Mrs.  Moon  paid  me  for  the  first 
week,  she  gave  me  fifty  cents  instead  of  twenty- 
five,  and  I  wouldn't  take  it. 

"But  you've  earned  it,"  she  said,  putting  it 
back  in  my  hand,  and  giving  it  a  little  pat — a 
little  love  pat.  "You  didn't  say  you  were 
coming  on  Sundays,  and  you  came.  Sunday  is 
the  worst  day  of  all.  I  nearly  go  crazy  on  Sun 
day.  No,  child,  don't  think  you're  getting  too 
much.  One  doctor's  visit  would  be  two  dollars, 
and  the  prescription  forty  cents,  anyhow.  The 
children  would  be  on  the  bed,  and  my  head 
splitting,  and  Mammy  as  much  good  in  keep 
ing  them  quiet  as  a  cackling  hen.  I  feel  like 
I'm  cheating  in  only  paying  fifty  cents.  Each 
nap  was  worth  that.  I  wish  I  could  engage 
you  by  the  year!"  And  she  gave  me  such  a 
squeeze  I  almost  lost  my  breath. 

But  they  are  funny,  those  Moon  children. 
82 


MARY   GARY'S    BUSINESS 

Sarah  Sue  is  the  oldest,  and  nobody  ever  knows 
what  Sarah  Sue  is  going  to  say. 

Yesterday  I  made  them  tell  me  what  they 
were  going  to  buy  for  their  mother's  and 
father's  Christmas  presents,  and  the  things 
they  said  were  queer.  As  queer  as  the  presents 
some  grown  people  give  each  other. 

"I'm  going  to  give  father  a  set  of  tools," 
said  Bobbie.  "I  saw  'em  in  Mr.  Blakey's  win 
dow,  and  they'll  cut  all  right.  They  cost 
eighty-five  cents." 

"What  are  you  going  to  give  your  father  tools 
for?"  I  asked.  "He's  not  a  boy." 

"But  I  am."  And  Bobbie  jumped  over  a 
chair  on  Billy's  back.  "You  said  yourself  you 
ought  always  to  give  a  person  a  thing  you'd 
like  to  have,  and  I'd  like  those  tools.  They're 
the  bulliest  set  in  Yorkburg.  I'm  going  to  give 
mother  a  little  yellow  duck.  That's  at  Mr. 
Blakey's,  too." 

"It  don't  cost  but  five  cents,"  said  Sarah 
Sue,  and  she  looked  at  Bobbie  as  if  he  were 
not  even  the  dust  of  the  earth.  Then  she 
handed  me  her  list. 

"But,  Sarah  Sue,"  I  said,  after  I'd  read  it, 
"you've  got  seventy-five  cents  down  here  for 
your  mother  and  only  fifty  for  your  father. 

83 


MARY   GARY 

Do  you  think  it's  right  to  make  a  differ 
ence?" 

"Yes,  I  do."  And  Sarah  Sue's  big  brown 
eyes  were  as  serious  as  if  'twere  funeral  flowers 
she  was  selecting.  "You  see,  it's  this  way. 
I  love  them  both  seventy-five  cents'  worth, 
but  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  give  them  the 
same.  Father  is  just  my  father  by  marriage, 
but  Mother's  my  mother  by  bornation.  I  think 
mothers  ought  always  to  have  the  most." 

I  think  so,  too. 


IX 


LOVE    IS    BEST 

IHRISTMAS  is  over.  I  feel  like  the 
parlor  grate  when  the  fire  has  gone 
out. 

But  it  was  a  grand  Christmas,  the 
grandest  we've  ever  known.  It  came 
on  Christmas  Day.  From  the  time 
we  got  up  until  we  went  to  bed  we  were  so 
happy  we  forgot  we  were  Charity  children ;  and 
no  matter  whatever  happens,  we've  got  one 
beautiful  time  to  look  back  on. 

Miss  Katherine  says  a  beautiful  memory  is 
a  possession  no  one  can  take  from  you,  and  it's 
one  of  the  best  possessions  you  can  have.  I 
think  so,  too.  She's  made  all  my  memories. 
All.  I  mean  the  precious  ones. 

Everybody  in  this  Orphan  Asylum  had  a 
present  from  somebody  outside.  Even  me, 
who  might  as  well  be  that  man  in  the  Bible, 

35 


MARY   GARY 

Melchesey  something,  who  didn't  have  begin 
ning  or  end,  or  any  relations. 

I  had  fourteen  from  outside.  Some  I  hid, 
because  I  didn't  want  the  girls  to  know,  several 
not  getting  more  than  one,  and  hardly  any 
more  than  three  or  four. 

Those  who  had  the  heart  to  give  them  didn't 
have  the  money,  and  those  who  had  the  money 
didn't  have  the  heart.  Being  so  busy  with  their 
own  they  forgot  to  remember,  and  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  Miss  Katherine  and  her  friends  this 
last  Christmas  would  have  been  like  all  others. 

Her  Army  brother's  wife  sent  a  box  full  of 
all  sorts  of  pretty  Indian  things,  she  being  in 
the  wild  West  near  the  Indians  who  made  them. 
And  she  sent  ten  dolls,  all  dressed,  for  the  ten 
youngest  girls. 

She  is  awful  busy,  having  three  children  and 
not  much  money ;  but  Miss  Katherine  says  busy 
people  make  time,  and  those  who  have  most  to 
do,  do  more  still. 

She  sent  me  the  darlingest  little  bedroom 
slippers  with  fur  all  around  the  top.  And  in 
them  she  put  a  little  note  that  made  me  cry 
and  cry  and  cry,  it  was  so  dear  and  mothery. 
I  don't  know  what  made  me  cry,  but  I  couldn't 
help  it.  I  couldn't. 

86 


LOVE   IS   BEST 

She  doesn't  know  me  except  from  what  Miss 
Katherine  writes,  and  I  wonder  why  she  wrote 
that  note.  But  everybody  is  good  to  me — that 
is,  nearly  everybody. 

It  certainly  makes  a  difference  in  your  back 
bone  when  people  are  kind  and  when  they  are 
not.  I  don't  believe  unkindness  and  mis 
fortune  and  suffering  will  ever  make  me  good. 
If  anybody  is  mean  to  me,  I'm  stifferer  than  a 
lamp-post,  and  you  couldn't  make  me  cry. 
But  when  any  one  is  good  to  me,  I  haven't  a 
bit  of  firmness,  and  am  no  better  than  a  cater 
pillar. 

I  got  thirty-one  presents  this  year.  Thirty- 
one!  I  didn't  know  I  had  so  many  friends  in 
Yorkburg,  and  my  heart  was  so  bursting  with 
surprise  and  gratitude  it  just  ached.  Ached 
happy. 

We  are  not  often  allowed  to  make  regular 
visits,  but  I  have  lots  of  little  talks  informal 
on  errands,  or  messages,  or  passing;  and  as  I 
know  almost  everybody  by  sight,  I  have  a  right 
large  speaking  acquaintance.  With  some  peo 
ple,  Miss  Katherine  says,  that's  the  safest  kind 
to  have. 

You  see,  Yorkburg  is  a  very  small  place. 
Just  three  long  streets  and  some  short  ones 

87 


MARY   GARY 

going  across.  Scratching  up  everything,  it 
hasn't  got  three  thousand  people  in  it.  A  lot 
of  them  are  colored. 

But  it's  very  old  and  historic.  Awful  old; 
so  is  everything  in  it.  As  for  its  blue  blood, 
Mrs.  Hunt  says  there's  more  in  Yorkburg  than 
any  place  of  its  size  in  America. 

Most  of  the  strangers  who  come  here,  though, 
seem  to  prefer  to  pass  on  rather  than  stop,  and 
Miss  Webb  thinks  it's  on  account  of  the  blood. 
A  little  red  mixed  in  might  wake  Yorkburg  up, 
she  says,  and  that's  what  it  needs — to  know 
the  war  is  over  and  the  change  has  come  to 
stay. 

But  I  love  Yorkburg,  and  most  of  the  people 
are  dear.  Some  queer.  Old  Mrs.  Peet  is. 
Her  husband  has  been  dead  forty  years,  but 
she  still  keeps  his  hat  on  the  rack  for  protec 
tion,  and  whenever  any  one  goes  to  see  her 
after  dark  she  always  calls  him,  as  if  he  were 
upstairs. 

She  lives  by  herself  and  is  over  seventy,  and 
she's  pretended  so  long  that  he's  living  that 
they  say  she  really  believes  he  is.  She  almost 
makes  you  believe  it,  too. 

Miss  Bray  sent  me  there  one  night.  She 
wanted  some  cherry-bounce  for  Eliza  Green, 

88 


LOVE   IS   BEST 

who  had  an  awful  pain,  and  after  I'd  knocked, 
I'd  have  run  if  I'd  dared. 

In  the  hall  I  could  hear  Mrs.  Peet  pounding 
on  the  floor  with  her  stick.  Then  her  little 
piping  voice: 

"Mr.  Peet,  Mr.  Peet,  you'd  better  come  down! 
There's  some  one  at  the  door!  You'd  better 
come  down,  Mr.  Peet!" 

"It's  just  Mary  Gary!"  I  called.  "Miss  Bray 
sent  me,  Mrs.  Peet.  She  wants  some  cherry- 
bounce." 

1 '  Oh,  all  right,  Mr.  Peet.  You  needn't  bother 
to  come  down.  It's  just  little  Mary  Gary." 
And  she  opened  the  door  a  tiny  crack  and 
peeped  through. 

"Mr.  Peet  isn't  very  well  to-night,"  she  said. 
"He's  taken  fresh  cold.  But  you  can  come  in." 

I  came;  but  I  didn't  want  to.  And  if  Mr. 
Peet  had  come  down  those  steps  and  shaken 
hands  I  wouldn't  have  been  surprised.  It's 
certainly  strange  how  something  you  know 
isn't  true  seems  true;  and  Mr.  Peet,  dead 
forty  years,  seemed  awful  alive  that  night. 
Every  minute  I  thought  he'd  walk  in. 

She  likes  you  to  think  he's  living  at  night. 
Every  day  she  goes  to  his  grave,  which  is  in 
the  churchyard  right  next  to  where  she  lives; 
7  89 


MARY   GARY 

but  at  night  he  comes  back  to  life  to  her. 
She's  so  lonely,  I  think  it's  beautiful  that  he 
comes. 

I  make  out  like  I  think  he  comes,  too,  and 
I  always  send  him  my  love,  and  ask  how  his 
rheumatism  is.  I  tell  you,  Martha  don't  dare 
smile  when  I  do  it.  She  don't  even  want  to. 

And,  don't  you  know,  old  Mrs.  Peet  sent  me 
a  Christmas  present,  too.  A  pair  of  mittens. 
She  knit  them  herself.  It  was  awful  nice  of 
her. 

I  don't  know  how  big  the  check  was  that 
Miss  Katherine's  billionaire  brother  sent  her 
to  spend  on  the  children's  Christmas,  but  it 
must  have  been  a  corker.  The  things  she 
bought  with  it  cost  money,  and  the  change  it 
made  in  the  Asylum  was  Cinderellary.  It 
was. 

She  bought  a  carpet  for  the  parlor,  and  some 
curtains  for  the  windows,  and  a  bookcase  of 
books. 

For  the  dining-room  she  bought  six  new 
tables  and  sixty  chairs.  They  were  plain,  but 
to  sit  at  a  table  with  only  ten  at  it  instead  of 
forty,  as  I'd  been  sitting  for  many  years,  was 
to  have  a  proud  sensation  in  your  stomach. 
Mine  got  so  gay  I  couldn't  eat  at  the  first  meal. 

90 


LOVE    IS    BEST 

To  have  a  chair  all  to  yourself,  after  sitting 
on  benches  so  old  they  were  worn  on  both 
edges,  was  to  feel  like  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  and 
I  felt  like  her.  I  could  have  danced  up  and 
down  the  table,  but  instead  I  said  grace  over 
and  over  inside.  I  had  something  to  say  it 
for.  All  of  us  did. 

Besides  a  present,  each  of  us  had  a  new 
dress.  It  was  made  of  worsted — real  worsted, 
not  calico;  and  that  morning  after  breakfast, 
and  after  everything  had  been  cleaned  up,  we 
put  on  our  new  dresses  and  came  down  in  the 
parlor. 

And  such  a  fire  as  there  was  in  it ! 

It  sputtered  and  flamed,  and  danced  and 
blazed,  and  crackled  and  roared.  Oh,  it  knew 
it  was  Christmas,  that  fire  did,  and  the  mistle 
toe  and  holly  and  running  cedar  knew  it,  too! 

At  first,  though,  the  children  felt  so  stiff 
and  funny  in  their  new-shaped  dresses  made 
like  other  children's  that  they  weren't  natural, 
so  I  pretended  we  were  having  a  soiree,  and  I 
went  round  and  shook  hands  with  every  one. 

They  got  to  laughing  so  at  the  names  I  gave 
them — names  that  fit  some,  and  didn't  touch 
others  by  a  thousand  years — that  the  stiffness 
went.  And  if  in  all  Yorkburg  there  was  a 


MARY   GARY 

cheerfuller  room  or  a  happier  lot  of  children 
that  Christmas  Day  than  we  were,  we  didn't 
hear  of  it.  I  don't  believe  there  was,  either. 

The  reason  we  enjoyed  this  Christmas  so  was 
because  it  was  on  Christmas  Day. 

Our  celebrations  had  always  been  after 
Christmas,  and  Christmas  after  Christmas  is  like 
cold  buckwheat  cakes  and  no  syrup.  Like  an 
orange  with  the  juice  all  gone. 

As  for  the  tree,  it  was  a  spanker.  We  were 
dazed  dumb  for  a  minute  when  the  parlor  doors 
leading  into  the  sewing-room  were  opened. 
But  never  being  able  to  stay  dumb  long,  I 
commenced  to  clap.  Then  everybody  clapped. 
Clapped  so  hard  half  the  candles  went  out. 

There  wasn't  a  soul  on  the  place  that  didn't 
get  a  present.  This  tree  was  Miss  Katherine's, 
not  the  Board's,  and  the  presents  bought  with 
the  brother's  money  were  things  we  could  keep. 
Not  things  to  put  away  and  pass  on  to  some 
body  else  next  year.  I  almost  had  a  fit  when 
I  found  I  had  roller-skates  and  a  set  of  books 
too.  Think  of  it!  Roller-skates  and  books! 
The  rich  brother  sent  those  himself,  and  I'm 
still  wondering  why. 

This  was  Miss  Katherine's  second  Christmas 
with  us,  but  the  first  she  had  managed  herself. 

92 


LOVE   IS   BEST 

Last  Christmas  she  had  been  at  the  Asylum 
such  a  short  time  she  kept  quiet,  and  just  saw 
how  things  were  done.  And  not  done.  But 
this  year  she  asked  if  she  could  provide  the 
entertainment,  and  the  difference  in  these  last 
two  Christmases  was  like  the  difference  in  the 
way  things  are  done  from  love  and  duty. 

And  oh!   love  is  so  much  the  best! 

I  do  believe  I  was  the  happiest  child  in  all 
the  world  that  day,  and  I  didn't  come  out  of 
that  cloud  of  glory  until  night.  Mrs.  Christo 
pher  Pryor  took  me  out. 

She  had  come  over  with  some  of  the  Board 
ladies  to  see  the  tree  and  things,  and  as  she 
was  going  home  I  heard  her  say: 

"I  don't  approve  of  all  this.  Not  at  all. 
Not  at  all.  These  children  have  had  a  more 
elaborate  Christmas  than  mine.  They've  had 
as  good  a  dinner,  a  handsomer  tree,  and  as 
many  presents  as  some  well-off  people.  It's 
all  nonsense,  putting  notions  in  their  heads 
when  they're  as  poor  as  poverty  itself  and  have 
their  living  to  make.  I  don't  approve  of  it. 
Not  at  all." 

She  bristled  so  stiff  and  shook  her  head  so 
vigorous  that  the  little  jet  ornaments  on  her 
bonnet  just  tinkled  like  bells,  and  one  fell  off. 

93 


MARY   GARY 

Mrs.  Christopher  Pryor  is  one  of  the  people 
who  would  like  to  tell  the  Lord  how  to  run 
this  earth.  She  could  run  it.  That  He  lets 
the  rain  fall  and  sun  shine  on  everybody  alike 
is  a  thing  she  don't  approve  of  either.  As 
for  poor  people,  she  thinks  they  ought  to  be 
thankful  for  breath,  and  not  expect  more 
than  enough  to  keep  it  from  going  out  for 
good. 

She's  very  decided  in  her  views,  and  never 
keeps  them  to  herself.  It's  the  one  thing  she 
gives  away.  Everything  else  she  holds  on  to 
with  such  a  grip  that  it  keeps  her  upper  lip  so 
pressed  down  on  her  under  lip  that  she  breathes 
through  her  nose  most  of  the  time. 

She's  a  very  curious  shape.  Being  stout,  she 
has  to  hold  her  head  up  to  keep  her  chin  off 
her  fatness;  and  she  goes  in  so  at  the  waist, 
coming  out  top  and  bottom,  that  you  would 
think  something  in  her  would  get  jammed  out 
of  place.  You  really  would. 

There  are  seven  daughters.  No  sons.  The 
boys  call  their  place  Hen-House.  There  is  a 
husband,  but  nobody  seems  to  notice  him ;  and 
when  with  his  wife,  he  always  walks  behind. 

Miss  Webb  says  she's  sorry  for  a  man  whose 
wife  is  too  active  in  the  church.  Mrs.  Pryor  is. 

94 


LOVE   IS   BEST 

She  leads  all  the  responses;  and  as  for  the 
chants,  she  takes  them  right  out  of  the  choir's 
mouth  and  soars  off  with  them. 

I  never  could  bear  her ;  and  when  I  heard  her 
say  those  words  to  Mrs.  Marsden,  I  came  right 
down  to  earth  and  was  Martha  Gary  in  a  min 
ute.  I'd  been  Mary  all  day,  and,  like  a  splash 
in  a  mud-puddle,  she  made  me  Martha;  and  I 
heard  myself  say: 

"No,  Mrs.  Pryor,  we  know  you  don't  ap 
prove.  You  never  yet  have  let  a  child  here 
forget  she  was  a  Charity  child,  and  only  people 
who  make  others  happy  will  approve." 

Then  I  walked  away  as  quiet  as  a  Nun's 
daughter.  But  I  was  burning  hot  all  the  same, 
and  so  surprised  at  the  way  Martha  spoke,  so 
serious  and  unlike  the  way  she  usually  speaks 
when  mad,  that  I  had  to  go  on  the  back  porch 
and  make  snowballs  and  throw  hard  at  some 
thing  before  I  was  all  right  again. 

But  I  wouldn't  let  it  ruin  my  beautiful  day. 
I  wouldn't. 

That  night,  when  I  went  to  bed,  I  was  so 
tired  out  with  happiness  I  couldn't  half  say 
my  prayers.  But  I  knew  God  understood. 
He  let  the  Christ-child  be  born  poor  and  lowly, 
so  He  could  understand  about  Charity  children, 

95 


MARY   GARY 

and  everybody  else  who  goes  wrong  because 
they  don't  know  how  to  go  right.  So  I  just 
thanked  Him,  and  thanked  Him  in  my  heart. 

And  when  Miss  Katherine  kissed  me  good 
night  and  tucked  me  in  bed,  she  said  I'd  made 
her  have  a  beautiful  Christmas.  That  I'd 
helped  everybody  and  kept  things  from  drag 
ging,  because  I  had  enjoyed  it  so  myself,  and 
been  so  enthusiastic,  and  she  was  so  glad  I 
was  born  that  way. 

I  thought  she  was  making  fun,  it  was  so 
ridiculous,  thanking  me,  little  Mary  Gary,  who 
hadn't  done  a  thing  but  be  glad  and  seen  that 
nobody  was  forgot. 

But  she  wasn't  making  fun,  and  I  went  off 
to  sleep  and  dreamed  I  was  in  a  place  called 
the  Love-Land,  where  everybody  did  everything 
just  for  love.  Which  shows  it  was  a  dream 
land,  for  on  earth  there're  Brays  and  Pryors, 
and  people  too  busy  to  be  kind.  And  in  that 
Love-Land  everything  was  done  the  other  way, 
just  backward  from  our  way,  and  yourself  came 
second  instead  of  first. 


X 


THE  REAGAN  BALL 

T  is  snowing  fast  and  furious  to-day. 
It's  grand  to  watch  it.     I  love  mira 
cles,  and  it's  a  miracle  to  see  an  ugly 
place  turn  into  a  palace  of  marble 
and  silver  with  diamond  decorations. 
That's  what  the  Asylum  is  to-day. 
I    certainly   would   like    to    have    seen   the 
Reagan  ball.     Miss  Webb  says  it  was  the  best 
show  ever  given  in  Yorkburg,  and  she  enjoyed 
it,  being  particular  fond  of  freaks. 

Miss  Katherine  didn't  want  to  go,  but  Miss 
Webb  made  her.  For  weeks  that  Reagan  ball 
had  been  talked  about,  and  Yorkburg  knew 
things  about  it  that  had  never  been  known 
about  parties  before,  money  not  often  being 
mentioned  here. 

Everybody  knew  what  this  ball  was  going 
to  cost.  Knew  the  supper  was  coming  from 
New  York,  with  white  waiters  and  kid  gloves. 

97 


MARY    GARY 

And  what  Mrs.  Reagan  and  her  daughters  were 
going  to  wear.  That  their  dresses  had  been 
made  in  Europe,  and  that  Mrs.  Hamner  hadn't 
been  invited,  and  that  more  money  was  coming 
to  Yorkburg  in  the  shape  of  one  man  than  had 
ever  been  in  it  altogether  before. 

If  I  just  could  have  put  myself  invisible  on 
a  picture- frame  and  looked  down  on  that  fleet 
ing  show  I  would  have  done  it.  But  not  being 
able  to  work  that  miracle,  I  just  heard  what 
was  going  round,  and  it  was  very  interesting, 
the  things  I  heard. 

Miss  Webb  and  Miss  Katherine  and  I  think 
just  alike  about  Mrs.  Reagan.  I  know,  for  I 
heard  them  talking  one  night  just  before  the 
ball. 

"But  why  in  the  name  of  Heaven  should  I  go 
if  I  don't  want  to?"  said  Miss  Katherine,  and 
she  put  her  feet  on  the  fender  and  lay  back  in 
her  big  rose-covered  chair.  "I  don't  like  her, 
or  her  family,  the  English  she  speaks,  or  the 
books  she  reads.  Why,  then,  should  I  go  to 
her  parties?  I'm  not  going!" 

' '  Oh  yes,  you  are. ' '  And  Miss  Webb  put  some 
more  coal  on  the  fire  and  made  it  blaze.  ' '  Knowl 
edge  of  life  requires  a  knowledge  of  humanity 
in  all  its  subdivisions.  Mrs.  Reagan  is  a  new 

98 


THE   REAGAN   BALL 

sub.     As  a  curio,  she's  worth  the  price.     You 
couldn't  keep  me  from  her  show." 

"But  she 's  such  a  snob .  When  a  woman  does 
not  know  her  grandfather's  first  name  on  her 
mother's  side  and  talks  of  people  not  being  in 
her  set,  Christian  charity  does  not  require  you 
to  visit  her.  I  agree  with  Mrs.  Rodman.  People 
like  that  ought  to  be  let  alone." 

"But  Mrs.  Rodman  isn't  going  to  let  them 
alone.  Not  for  a  minute.  The  only  thing  that 
goes  on  among  them  that  she  doesn't  know  is 
what  she  can't  find  out.  She  met  me  this 
morning,  and  asked  me  if  I'd  heard  how  many 
people  had  gotten  here,  and  when  I  said  no, 
she  made  me  come  in  Miss  Patty's  store,  and 
told  me  all  she'd  been  able  to  discover. 

"There  are  eighteen  guests  already,'  she 
said,  'and  nearly  all  have  rooms  to  them 
selves.  They  tell  me  it's  the  fashion  now  for 
husbands  and  wives  not  to  see  each  other  until 
breakfast,  and  not  then  if  the  wife  wants  hers 
in  bed.'  And  the  way  she  lifted  her  chin 
and  eyebrows  would  be  dangerous  for  you  to 
try. 

"I  tell  you  it's  a  reflection  on  York- 
burg's  mode  of  life,'  she  went  on.  'For  two 
hundred  years  people  have  come  and  gone  in 

99 


MARY   GARY 

this  town,  and  rooms  have  never  been  men 
tioned.  But  this  is  a  degenerate  age.  De 
generate!  Scandalous  wealth  shouldn't  be  rec 
ognized,  and  I  don't  intend  to  countenance  it 
myself!' 

"But  she  will."  And  Miss  Webb  took  up 
her  muff  to  go.  "She  bought  a  pair  of  cream- 
colored  kid  gloves  from  Miss  Patty,  and  she's 
going  to  wear  them  at  that  ball.  You  couldn't 
keep  her  away." 

And  she  was  there.  The  first  one,  they  say. 
She  had  on  the  dress  her  Grandmother  wore 
when  her  great-grandfather  was  minister  to 
something  in  Europe;  and  when  she  sailed 
around  the  rooms  with  the  big,  high  comb  in 
her  hair  that  was  her  great-great-grand 
mother's,  Miss  Webb  says  she  was  the  best 
side-show  on  the  grounds. 

But  if  you  were  to  take  a  gimlet  and  bore  a 
hole  in  Mrs.  Rodman's  head,  you  couldn't  make 
her  believe  anybody  would  smile  at  Her. 

She  was  Mrs.  General  Rodman,  born  Mason, 
and  the  best  blood  in  Virginia  was  in  her  veins. 
Also  in  her  father's,  as  she  put  on  his  tomb 
stone. 

Outside  of  Virginia  she  didn't  think  anybody 
was  really  anything.  Of  course,  she  knew 

IOO 


THE   REAGAN   BALL 


there  were  other  states  where  thirigs  were-  tfdrie' 
that  made  money,  but  she'd  just  wave  her  hand 
if  you  mentioned  them. 

As  for  a  Yankee!  I  wouldn't  like  to  put  in 
words  what  she  does  think  of  a  Yankee. 

She  lost  a  husband  and  two  brothers  and  a 
father  and  four  nephews  and  an  uncle  in  the 
war;  and  all  her  money;  and  her  house  had 
to  be  sold ;  and  her  baby  died  before  its  father 
saw  it;  and,  of  course,  that  makes  a  difference. 
It  makes  a  Yankee  real  personal. 

But  Miss  Katherine  don't  feel  that  way  about 
Yankees.  Each  of  her  brothers  married  one, 
and  she  don't  seem  to  mind. 

Miss  Katherine  went  to  the  ball,  too.  She 
gave  in,  after  all,  and  went. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  when  she  was 
dressed  and  all  ready  to  go.  She  had  on  a  long, 
white  satin  dress,  low  neck  and  short  sleeves, 
with  little  trimming  and  no  jewelry.  And  she 
looked  so  tall  and  beautiful,  and  so  something  I 
didn't  have  a  name  for,  that  I  was  afraid,  and  my 
heart  beat  so  thick  and  fast  I  thought  she'd  hear. 

I  hated  it.  Hated  that  satin  dress,  and  the 
places  where  she  wore  it  when  away  from  the 
Asylum;  and  I  sat  up  in  bed,  for  lying  down 
it  was  hard  to  breathe. 


101 


ii'MARY   GARY 


from  the  fire  where 
she  had  been  standing,  looking  in,  and  came 
toward  me  and  kissed  me  good-night. 

In  her  face  was  something  I  had  never  seen 
before  —  something  so  quiet  and  proud  that  I 
couldn't  sleep  for  a  long  time  after  she  went 
away. 

It  wasn't  just  the  same  as  the  remembrance 
look  I  had  seen  several  times  before,  when  she 
forgot  she  wasn't  by  herself.  It  was  prouder 
than  that,  and  it  meant  something  that  didn't 
get  better  —  just  worse. 

What  was  it  ?  If  it's  a  man,  who  is  he  ?  He 
must  be  living,  for  it  isn't  the  look  that  means 
something  is  dead.  It  means  something  that 
won't  die,  but  is  never,  never  going  to  be  told. 


XI 


FINDING   OUT 

HIS  world  is  a  hard  place  to  live  in. 
I  wish  somebody  would  tell  me  what 
we  are  born  for  anyway,  and  what's 
the  use  of  living. 

There  are  so  many  things  that  hurt, 
and  you  get  so  mixed  up  trying  to 
understand,  that  if  you  don't  keep  busy  you'll 
spend  your  life  guessing  at  a  puzzle  that  hasn't 
any  answer. 

Miss   Katherine   has   gone   away.     Gone   to 
stay  two  months,  anyhow.     Maybe  three. 

Her  Army  brother,  the  one  who  is  a  Captain, 
has  been  sent  to  Texas,  and  his  wife  arid  chil 
dren  were  taken  ill  as  soon  as  they  got  there. 
Of  course,    they  sent    for  Miss    Katherine; 
that  is,  asked  her  by  telegraph  if  she  wouldn't 
come.     She    went.     And    she'll    be    going    to 
somebody  all  her  life,  for  she's  the  kind  that  is 
turned  to  when  things  go  wrong. 
103 


MARY    GARY 

Miss  Webb  is  awful  worried.  She  says  a  cool 
head  and  a  warm  heart  are  always  worked  to 
death,  and  the  person  who  has  them  is  forever 
on  call. 

Miss  Katherine  has  them. 
She  had  to  go,  of  course.     We  were  not  sick, 
except  a  few  snifflers.     We  didn't  exactly  need 
her,  and  her  brother  did-  but  oh  the  difference 
her  being  away  makes ! 

Three  months  of  doing  without  her  is  like 
three  months  of  daylight  and  no  sunlight.  It's 
like  things  to  eat  that  haven't  any  taste ;  like  a 
room  in  which  the  one  you  wait  for  never  comes. 
I  am  back  in  No.  4,  in  one  of  the  thirteen 
beds.  My  body  goes  on  doing  the  same  things. 
Gets  up  at  five  o'clock.  Dresses,  cleans,  prays, 
eats,  goes  to  school,  eats,  sews,  plays,  eats, 
studies,  goes  to  bed.  And  that's  got  to  be  done 
every  day  in  the  same  way  it  was  done  the  day 
before. 

But  it's  just  my  body  that  does  them.  Out 
side  I  am  a  little  machine  wound  up;  inside  I 
am  a  thousand  miles  away,  and  doing  a  thou 
sand  other  things.  Some  day  I  am  going  to 
blow  up  and  break  my  inside  workings,  for  I 
wasn't  meant  to  run  regular  and  on  time.  I 

wasn't. 

104 


FINDING   OUT 

What  was  I  meant  for  ?  I  don't  know.  But 
not  to  be  tied  to  a  rope.  And  that's  what  I 
am.  Tied  to  a  rope.  If  I  were  a  boy  I'd  cut  it. 

I  am  almost  crazy!  A  wonderful  thing  has 
happened.  I  am  so  excited  my  breathing  is  as 
bad  as  old  Miss  Betsy  Hays's.  I  believe  I 
know  who  I  am. 

My  heart  is  jumping  and  thumping  and  carry 
ing  on  so  that  it  makes  my  teeth  chatter;  and 
as  I  can't  tell  anybody  what  I've  heard,  I  am 
likely  to  die  from  keeping  it  to  myself. 

I  am  not  going  to  die  until  I  find  out.  If  I 
did  I  would  be  as  bad  off  in  heaven  as  on  earth. 
Even  an  angel  would  prefer  to  know  something 
about  itself. 

I'm  like  Miss  Bray  now.  I'm  counting  on 
going  to  heaven.  Otherwise  it  wouldn't  make 
any  difference  who  I  was,  as  one  more  misery 
don't  matter  when  you're  swamped  in  mis- 
erableness.  I  suppose  that's  what  hell  is: 
Miserableness. 

What  are  you  when  you  don't  go  to  heaven  ? 

But  that's  got  nothing  to  do  with  how  I 
found  out  who  I  am.  It's  like  Martha,  though: 
always  butting  in  with  questions  no  Mary  on 
earth  could  answer. 

s  105 


MARY   GARY 

Well,  the  way  I  found  out  was  one  of  those 
mysterious  ways  in  which  God  works  his  won 
ders.  Yesterday  afternoon  I  asked  Miss  Bray 
if  I  could  go  over  and  play  with  the  Moon  chil 
dren,  three  of  whom  are  sick,  and  she  said  I 
might.  We  were  in  the  nursery,  which  is  next 
to  Mrs.  Moon's  bedroom,  and  she  and  the  lady 
from  Michigan,  who  is  visiting  her,  were  talking 
and  paying  no  attention  to  us.  Presently  some 
thing  the  lady  said — her  name  is  Mrs,  Grey — 
made  everything  in  me  stop  working,  and  my 
heart  gave  a  little  click  like  a  clock  when  the 
pendulum  don't  swing  right. 

She  was  sitting  with  her  back  to  the  door, 
which  was  open,  and  I  could  see  her,  but  she 
couldn't  see  me.  All  of  a  sudden  she  put  down 
her  sewing  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Moon  as  if  some 
thing  had  just  come  to  her. 

"Elizabeth  Moon,  I  believe  I  know  that 
child's  uncle,"  she  said.  "Ever  since  you  told 
me  about  her  something  has  been  bothering 
me.  Didn't  you  say  her  mother  had  a  brother 
who  years  ago  went  West?" 

"Hush,"  said  Mrs.  Moon,  and  she  nodded 
toward  me.  "She'll  hear  you,  and  the  ladies 
wouldn't  like  it." 

She  lowered  her  voice  so  I  couldn't  hear  all 
106 


FINDING   OUT 

she  said,  but  I  heard  something  about  its  being 
the  only  thing  Yorkburg  ever  did  keep  quiet 
about.  And  only  then  because  everybody  felt 
so  sorry  for  her.  In  a  flash  I  knew  they  were 
talking  about  me. 

After  the  first  understanding,  which  made 
everything  in  me  stop,  everything  got  moving, 
and  all  my  inward  workings  worked  double 
quick.  Why  my  heart  didn't  get  right  out  on 
the  floor  and  look  up  at  me,  I  don't  know.  I 
kept  on  talking  and  making  up  wild  things  just 
to  keep  the  children  quiet,  but  I  had  to  hold 
myself  down  to  the  floor.  To  help,  I  put  Billy 
and  Kitty  Lee  both  in  my  lap. 

What  I  wanted  to  do  was  to  go  to  Mrs.  Moon 
and  say :  "I  am  twelve  and  a  half,  and  I've  got 
the  right  to  know.  I  want  to  hear  about  my 
uncle.  I  don't  want  to  know  him,  he  not  caring 
to  know  me."  But  before  I  could  really  think 
Mrs.  Grey  spoke  again. 

"He  has  no  idea  his  sister  left  a  child.  He 
told  me  she  married  very  young,  and  died  a 
year  afterward;  and  he  had  heard  nothing 
from  her  husband  since.  As  soon  as  I  go  home 
I  am  going  to  tell  him.  I  certainly  am." 

"You    had    better    not,"    said    Mrs.    Moon. 
"It's  been  thirteen  years  since  he  left  York- 
107 


MARY   GARY 

burg,  and,  as  he  has  never  been  back,  he  evi 
dently  doesn't  care  to  know  anything  about  it. 
I  don't  think  the  ladies  would  like  you  to  tell. 
They  are  very  proud  of  having  kept  so  quiet 
out  of  respect  to  her  father's  wishes.  If  Parke 
Alden  had  wanted  to  learn  anything,  he  could 
have  done  it  years  ago." 

* '  But  I  tell  you  he  doesn't  know  there's  any 
thing  to  learn."  And  the  Michigan  lady's  voice 
was  as  snappy  as  the  place  she  came  from. 
"I  know  Dr.  Alden  well,"  she  went  on.  "He's 
operated  on  me  twice,  and  I've  spent  weeks  in 
his  hospital.  When  he  tells  me  it's  best  for 
my  head  to  come  off — off  my  head  is  to  come. 
And  when  a  man  can  make  people  feel  that 
way  about  him,  he  isn't  the  kind  that's  not 
square  on  four  sides. 

"I  tell  you,  he  doesn't  know  about  this  child. 
He's  often  talked  to  me  about  Yorkburg,  know 
ing  you  were  my  cousin.  He  told  me  of  his 
sister  running  away  with  an  actor  and  marry 
ing  him,  and  dying  a  year  later.  Also  of  his 
father's  death  and  the  sale  of  the  old  home, 
and  of  many  other  things.  There's  no  place 
on  earth  he  loves  as  he  does  Virginia.  He 
doesn't  come  back  because  there's  no  one  to 
come  to  see  specially.  No  real  close  kin,  I 
108 


FINDING   OUT 

mean.  The  changes  in  the  place  where  you 
were  born  make  a  man  lonelier  than  a  strange 
city  does,  and  something  seems  to  keep  him 
away." 

"You  say  he  doesn't  know  his  sister  left  a 
child?"  Mrs.  Moon  put  down  the  needle  she 
was  trying  to  thread,  and  stuck  it  in  her  work. 
"Why  doesn't  he  know?" 

"Why  should  he?  Who  was  there  to  tell 
him,  if  a  bunch  of  women  made  up  their  minds 
he  shouldn't  know?  He  wrote  to  his  sister 
again  and  again,  but  whether  his  letters  ever 
reached  her  he  never  knew.  He  thinks  not,  as 
it  was  unlike  her  not  to  write  if  they  were 
received. 

"Travelling  from  place  to  place  with  her 
actor  husband,  who,  he  said,  was  a  'younger  son 
Englishman,'  the  letters  probably  miscarried, 
and  not  for  months  after  her  death  did  he 
know  she  was  dead." 

"We  didn't,  either,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Moon. 
"In  fact,  we  heard  it  through  Parke,  who  went 
West  after  his  father's  death.  He  wrote  Roy 
Wright,  telling  him  about  it." 

"Who  is  Roy  Wright,  and  where  is  he,  that 
he  didn't  tell  Dr.  Alden  about  the  child?" 

"Oh,  Roy's  dead.     I  believe  Mary  Alden's 
109 


MARY   GARY 

marriage  broke  Roy's  heart;  that  is,  if  a 
man's  heart  can  be  broken.  He  had  been  in 
love  with  her  all  her  life.  Not  just  loved  her, 
but  in  love  with  her.  His  house  was  next  to 
the  Aldens',  where  the  Reagans  now  live,  and 
Major  Alden  and  General  Wright  were  old 
friends,  each  anxious  for  the  match.  When 
Mary  ran  away  at  seventeen  and  married  a 
man  her  father  didn't  know,  I  tell  you  York- 
burg  was  scared  to  death." 

"Do  you  remember  it?" 

"Remember!  I  should  think  I  did.  I  cried 
for  two  weeks.  Nearly  ruined  my  eyes.  Mary 
and  I  were  deskmates  at  Miss  Porterfield's 
school,  and  I  adored  her.  I  really  did.  So 
did  Dick  Moon."  She  stopped.  Then:  "Like 
most  women,  I'm  a  compromise,"  and  she 
laughed.  But  it  was  a  happy  laugh.  Mrs.  Grey 
smiled  too. 

"Was  Mary  Alden ,  engaged  to  Roy  Wright 
when  she  married  the  other  man?"  she  asked. 
"Tell  me  all  about  her." 

"No,  she  wasn't.  Mary  Alden  was  incapable 
of  deceit,  and  Roy  Wright  knew  she  didn't 
love  him.  He  knew  she  was  never  going  to 
marry  him.  Poor  Roy !  He  was  as  gentle  and 
sweet  and  patient  as  Mary  was  high-spirited  and 
no 


FINDING   OUT 

beautiful,  and  the  last  type  on  earth  to  win  a 
woman  of  Mary's  temperament.  She  wanted 
to  be  mastered,  and  Roy  could  only  worship." 

"And  her  father— what  did  he  do?" 

"Do?  The  Aldens  are  not  people  who  'do' 
things.  The  day  after  the  news  came,  he  and 
General  Wright  walked  arm  and  arm  all  over 
Yorkburg,  and  their  heads  were  high;  but  oh, 
my  dear,  it  was  pitiful.  They  didn't  know,  but 
they  were  clinging  to  each  other,  and  the  Major's 
face  was  like  death." 

"Didn't  some  one  say  he  had  been  pretty 
strict  with  her?  Held  too  tight  a  rein?" 

"Yes,  he  had,  and  he  deserved  part  of  his 
suffering.  His  pride  was  inherited,  and  Mary 
could  go  with  no  one  whose  great-grandparents 
he  didn't  know  about.  But  Mary  cared  no 
more  for  ancestors  than  she  did  for  Hottentots. 
When  she  met  this  Mr.  Gary,  a  young  English 
actor,  at  a  friend's  house  in  Baltimore,  she  made 
no  inquiry  as  to  whether  he  had  any,  and  fell 
in  love  at  once.  He  was  a  gentleman,  however. 
That  was  as  evident  as  Major  Alden's  rage 
when  he  went  to  see  the  latter,  and  asked  for 
Mary.  Mrs.  Rodman  happened  to  be  in  the 
house  at  the  time,  and  what  she  didn't  see 
she  heard.  She  says  the  one  thing  you  can't 
in 


MARY   GARY 

fool  her  about  is  a  counterfeit  gentleman.  And 
Ralston  Gary  was  no  counterfeit." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  get  on  what  Mrs. 
Rodman  thinks  or  says.  Tell  me  about  the 
marriage.  I'm  asking  a  lot  of  questions,  but 
you're  so  slow." 

"I'm  telling  as  fast  as  I  can.  You  interrupt 
so  much  with  questions  I  can't  finish."  And 
Mrs.  Moon's  voice  was  real  spunky. 

"They  were  married  in  Washington,"  she 
began  again.  "The  morning  after  the  inter 
view  with  the  Major  they  caught  the  five-o'clock 
train,  and  that  afternoon  there  was  a  telegram 
telling  of  the  marriage. 

"Her  father  never  forgave  Mary.  Seven 
months  later  he  died,  and  after  settling  up 
affairs  there  was  nothing  left.  Alden  House 
was  mortgaged  to  the  limit.  There  were  a 
number  of  small  debts  as  well  as  two  or  three 
large  ones,  and  when  these  were  paid  and  all 
accounts  squared  there  was  barely  enough 
left  for  Parke  to  buy  his  railroad  ticket  to  some 
city  out  West,  where  he  had  secured  a  place 
as  resident  physician  in  a  hospital.  That  was 
thirteen  years  ago."  She  took  a  deep  breath, 
as  if  thinking.  "Thirteen  years.  Since  then 
we've  known  little  about  him.  You  say  he  is 

112 


FINDING   OUT 

a  famous  surgeon?  We've  never  heard  it  in 
Yorkburg." 

' '  Of  course  you  haven't.  Yorkburg  has  heard 
nothing  since  1865.  But  there  are  a  good  many 
things  it  could  hear."  And  Mrs.  Grey  laughed, 
but  with  her  forehead  wrinkled,  as  if  she  were 
trying  to  understand  something  that  was 
puzzling  her. 

And  then  it  was  Mrs.  Moon  said  something 
that  made  understanding  come  rolling  right  in 
on  me.  The  answer  to  that  look  on  Miss 
Katherine's  face  the  night  of  the  Reagans'  ball 
was  as  plain  as  Jimmie  Jenkins's  nose,  which  is 
most  all  you  see  when  you  see  Jimmie.  It  was 
like  I  thought.  It  was  a  man. 

"Ophelia,"  said  Mrs.  Moon,  and  she  moved 
her  chair  closer  to  Mrs.  Grey,  and  leaned  for 
ward  with  her  hands  clasped,  "did  you  ever 
hear  Doctor  Alden  speak  of  a  Miss  Trent — Miss 
Katherine  Trent?" 

"No.     You  mean — " 

"Yes;  she's  the  one.  Parke  Alden  and 
Katherine  Trent  were  sweethearts  from  chil 
dren.  Shortly  after  Mary's  marriage  some 
thing  happened.  There  was  a  misunderstand 
ing  of  some  kind,  and  they  barely  bowed  when 
they  met.  Everybody  was  sorry,  for  it  was 


MARY   GARY 

one  of  the  matches  Heaven  might  have  made 
without  discredit.  Soon  after  Parke  went 
away,  Katherine  went  off  to  some  school  just 
outside  of  Philadelphia,  and,  so  far  as  is  known, 
they've  never  seen  each  other  since." 

Mrs.  Grey  brought  both  hands  down  on  her 
knees.  "I  knew  it  was  something  like  that. 
I  knew  it!  Doctor  Alden  is  just  that  sort  of 
a  man.  And  it's  Katherine  Trent?  I  wish  I'd 
known  it  before  she  went  away." 

"What  would  you  have  done?"  Mrs.  Moon 
looked  frightened.  She's  very  timid,  Mrs.  Moon 
is,  and  always  afraid  of  telling  something  she 
oughtn't.  "What  could  you  have  done?" 

"Looked  at  her  better.  She's  certainly  good 
to  look  at.  Not  beautiful,  but  a  face  you  never 
forget.  And  Doctor  Alden  is  the  kind  that 
never  forgets.  But  tell  me  something  about 
the  child.  How  did  she  get  here?" 

"Her  nurse  brought  her.  Her  father  kept 
her  after  her  mother's  death,  taking  her  about 
from  place  to  place  with  this  old  negro  mammy 
until  she  was  three,  when  he  died  suddenly, 
strange  to  say,  in  the  same  place  his  wife  died, 
Mobile,  Alabama." 

"Why  did  the  nurse  bring  her  here?    Was 
she  a  Yorkburg  darkey?" 
114 


FINDING   OUT 

"No;  but  she  had  heard  Mr.  Gary  say  there 
was  an  Orphan  Asylum  here,  and  not  knowing 
what  else  to  do,  she  came  on  with  her.  She 
told  the  Board  ladies. she  had  heard  the  child's 
father  say  a  hundred  times  he  would  rather 
see  her  dead  than  have  her  mother's  family 
take  her.  And  she  begged  them  not  to  let  it 
be  known  who  she  was  until  she  was  old  enough 
to  understand." 

Just  then  Bobbie  Moon  laid  out  flat  on  his  back 
and  kicked  up  his  heels.  And  Billie  looked  so 
disgusted,  I  stopped  the  story  I  was  trying  to  tell. 

"You  ain't  talking  sense,"  he  said.  "And 
I'm  not  going  to  listen  any  more.  An  ant 
can't  eat  an  elephant  in  half  an  hour  and  leave 
no  scraps."  And  he  rolled  over  and  began  to 
fight  Bobbie. 

Sarah  Sue  and  Myrtle,  who'd  been  playing 
with  their  mother's  muff  and  tippet,  got  to 
fussing  so  about  which  should  have  her  hat 
that  Mrs.  Moon,  hearing  it,  jumped  up,  and  I 
heard  her  say: 

"Mercy  me!     Do  you  suppose  she  heard?" 

I  never  was  so  glad  of  a  fight  in  my  life.  The 
more  fuss  was  made  the  more  chance  there  was 
of  my  being  forgot,  and  presently  I  told  Mrs. 
Moon  I  had  to  go  home.  The  boys  said  they 


MARY   GARY 

didn't  care,  my  stories  were  rotten  anyhow, 
and  out  I  went  and  ran  so  fast  I  had  such  a  pain 
in  my  side  I  could  hardly  breathe. 

But  I  didn't  go  in  right  away.  I  couldn't. 
Inside  of  me  everything  was  thumping:  "Mary 
Alden,  your  Mother;  Mary  Alden,  your  Mother; 
Mary  Alden,  your  Mother."  There  was  no 
other  thought  but  that. 

Presently  I  turned  and  went  down  to  King 
Street,  to  where  the  Reagans  live,  and  in  the 
dark  I  stood  there  and  shook  my  fist  at  my 
dead  grandfather.  I  hated  him  for  treating 
my  mother  so.  Hated  himj  Then  I  burst  out 
crying,  and  cried  so  awful  my  eyes  were  nearly 
washed  out. 

There  were  twelve  and  a  half  years'  worth  of 
tears  that  had  to  come  out,  and  I  let  them 
come.  After  they  were  out  I  felt  lighter. 

But  sleep?  There  wasn't  a  blink  of  it  for 
me  all  night.  I  was  so  mixed  up  with  new 
feelings  that  I  was  sick  in  my  stomach,  and 
my  old  conscience  got  so  sanctimonious  that 
if  I  could  have  spanked  it  I  would. 

I    wasn't    eavesdropping;     I    know    that's 

nasty.     But  forty  times  I'd  been  punished  for 

speaking  when  I  shouldn't,  and,  besides,  it  was 

my  duty  to  find  myself.    They  saw  me,  and  then 

1x6 


FINDING   OUT 

forgot.    If  they  hadn't  wanted  me  to  know  what 
they  were  saying,  they  shouldn't  have  said  it. 

But  that  didn't  do  my  conscience  any  good. 
I  hate  a  conscience.  It's  always  making  you 
feel  low  down  and  disreputable.  I  don't  be 
lieve  I  will  say  anything  to  my  children  about 
one,  and  let  them  have  some  peace. 

For  two  days  I  didn't  have  any.  Then  I 
decided  I'd  wait  until  Miss  Katherine  came, 
and  not  say  anything  to  her  or  to  anybody 
about  what  I'd  heard  until  I  found  out  a  little 
more  about  that  remembrance  in  her  face. 
But  the  waiting  for  her  is  the  longest  wait  I've 
ever  waited  through  yet. 

It  certainly  is  queer  what  a  surprise  you  are 
to  yourself.  Before  I  knew  that  my  mother 
and  her  father  and  his  father  and  some  other 
fathers  behind  him  had  lived  in  the  Alden 
House,  I  would  have  given  all  I  own,  which 
isn't  much,  just  my  body,  to  have  known  it. 
And  I  guess  I  would  have  been  that  airy  Martha 
couldn't  have  lived  with  me,  and  would  have 
had  to  take  Mary  to  the  pump  to  bring  her 
senses  back  with  water.  Mary  is  my  best  part, 
but  at  times  she  hasn't  half  the  common  sense 
she  needs,  and  frequently  has  a  pride  Martha 
has  to  attend  to. 

117 


MARY   GARY 

But  after  I  found  out  I  had  the  same  kind 
of  blood  in  me  that  Mrs.  General  Rodman  had 
in  her,  though  I'm  thankful  it  isn't  mentioned 
on  the  family's  tombstones,  it  didn't  seem  half 
as  big  a  thing  as  I  thought. 

I  was  ashamed  of  the  way  it  had  acted,  and 
of  the  way  it  had  treated  my  father.  He  was 
too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  talk  about  his, 
whether  high  or  low,  and  I  know  nothing  about 
him.  But  I  adore  his  memory!  I  am  his 
child  as  well  as  Mary  Alden's,  and  that's  a 
thing  my  children  are  never  going  to  forget. 
Never. 

And  now  the  part  I'm  thinking  of  most  is 
what  was  said  about  Miss  Katherine  and  Dr. 
Parke  Alden  being  sweethearts  when  they  were 
young.  He  has  been  away  thirteen  years,  Mrs. 
Moon  said,  and  Miss  Katherine  is  now  twenty- 
eight.  I  know  she  is,  because  she  told  me  so. 

Thirteen  from  twenty-eight  leaves  fifteen,  so 
she  was  fifteen  when  they  had  that  fuss  and  he 
went  off.  Fifteen  was  awful  young  to  love 
hard  and  permanent ;  but  Miss  Webb  says  Miss 
Katherine  was  born  grown  and  stubborn,  and 
when  she  once  takes  a  stand  she  keeps  it. 

I  wonder  what  she  took  the  stand  with  Uncle 
Parke  for?  She  is  right  quick  and  outspoken 
118 


FINDING   OUT 

at  times,  and  I  bet  he  made  her  mad  about 
something. 

But  she  ought  to  have  known  he  was  a  man, 
and  not  expected  much.  I  know  my  children's 
father  is  going  to  make  me  so  hopping  at  times 
I  could  shake  him.  If  he  didn't,  he  would  be 
terrible  stupid  to  live  with,  and  nothing  wears 
you  out  like  stupidness.  I  don't  really  mind 
a  scrap.  It's  so  nice  to  make  up. 

But  I  believe  that's  the  reason  Miss  Katherine 
don't  get  married.  Because  in  her  secret  heart 
Dr.  Parke  Alden  is  still  her  sweetheart.  I  know 
in  his  secret  heart  she  is  still  his.  She's  bound 
to  be  if  she  ever  once  was. 

Glorious  superbness!  Wouldn't  that  be 
grand?  If  they  were  to  get  married  she  would 
be  my  really,  truly  Aunt!  The  very  thought 
makes  me  so  full  of  thrills  I  can't  sit  still  when 
it  comes  over  me. 

Oh,  Mary  Martha  Gary,  what  a  beautiful 
place  this  world  could  be! 


XII 


A   TRUE   MIRACLE 

SECRET  isn't  any  pleasure.  What's 
the  use  of  knowing  a  thing  you  can't 
let  anybody  know  you  know?  If 
I  can't  tell  soon  what  I've  heard 
about  myself  something  is  liable  to 
happen. 

Nearly  three  months  have  passed,  and  I 
haven't  told  yet.  I'm  still  holding  out,  but  it's 
the  most  awful  experience  I  ever  had. 

Another  idea  has  come  to  me,  and  if  I  could 
see  Miss  Katherine  I  could  tell  whether  to  do 
it  or  not.  If  she  don't  come  soon  I  will  do  it, 
anyhow.  I  won't  be  able  to  help  it. 

The  girls  say  if  I  were  a  darkey  they'd  think 
I  was  seeking.  That's  because  some  days  I'm 
so  unnatural  quiet  and  stay  so  much  by  my 
self.  I  do  that  for  safety,  fearing  otherwise  I'd 
speak. 

They  don't  know  what's  going  on  inside  of 

120 


A   TRUE   MIRACLE 

me.  If  they  could  see  they'd  find  nothing  but 
quiverings  and  questions,  and  if  I  don't  do 
anything  really  violent  it's  all  I  ask. 

Every  morning  and  every  night  my  prayers 
are  just  this :  ' '  O  Lord,  help  Mary  Gary  through 
this  day.  I'm  not  asking  for  to-morrow,  it  not 
being  here  yet.  But  This  Day  help  me  to  hold 
out."  And  all  day  long  I'm  saying  under  my 
breath : 

"Hold  on,  Mary  Gary,  hold  on,  hold  on. 
There  never  was  a  night  that  didn't  have  a  dawn. 
There  never  was  a  road  that  didn't  have  an  end. 
Wait  awhile,  wait  awhile,  and  then  the  letter  send." 

I  say  that  so  often  to  myself  that  I'm  afraid 
somebody  will  hear  me  think  it.  If  that  letter 
isn't  sent  soon,  the  answer  will  be  received  by  a 
corpse. 

I'm  never  again  going  to  have  a  secret.  It's 
worse  than  a  tumor  or  dropsy.  Mrs.  Penick 
has  a  tumor.  I've  never  seen  the  dropsy,  but 
a  secret  is  more  dangerous,  for  it  dries  you  up. 
Dropsy  has  water  to  it. 

We  had  apple  -  dumplings  for  dinner.  I 
sold  mine  to  Lucy  Pyle  for  two  cents,  and 
bought  a  stamp  with  it.  The  stamp  is  for 
The  Letter. 

9  121 


MARY   GARY 

Miss  Katherine  has  come  back.  Came  night 
before  last,  but  I've  been  too  excited  to  write 
anything  down.  Everything  I  do  is  done  in 
dabs  these  days,  and  few  lines  at  the  time  is 
all  I'm  equal  to. 

She  looks  grand.  And  oh,  what  a  difference 
her  being  here  makes!  We  are  children,  not 
just  orphans,  when  she  is  with  us ;  and  it's  be 
cause  she  loves  us,  trusts  us,  brings  our  best 
part  to  the  top  that  we  are  different  when  she 
is  about.  The  very  way  she  laughs — so  clear 
and  hearty — makes  you  think  things  aren't  so 
bad,  and  already  they  have  picked  up.  Like 
my  primrose  does  when  I  give  it  water,  after 
forgetting  it  till  it  is  as  limp  as  old  Miss  Sarah 
Cone's  crepe  veil. 

I  haven't  told  her  anything  yet,  but  I've 
been  watching  good.  I  haven't  seen  any  par 
ticular  signs  of  memories  and  regrets,  she  being 
too  busy  to  have  them  since  she  got  back. 
Still,  I  believe  they  are  there,  and  I'm  that 
afraid  I'll  say  Parke  Alden  in  my  sleep  I  put  the 
covering  over  my  head,  for  fear  she'd  hear  me 
if  I  did. 

I  am  back  in  her  room,  and  this  afternoon 
she  asked  me  what  I  was  looking  at  her  so  hard 
for.  I  told  her  she  was  the  best  thing  to  look 

122 


A   TRUE    MIRACLE 

at  that  came  my  way,  and  she  laughed  and 
called  me  a  foolish  child.  But  Mary  Gary  is 
thinking,  and  she  isn't  telling  all  she  thinks 
about,  either. 

Well,  it's  written.  That  letter  is  written  and 
gone.  It  was  to  Dr.  Parke  Alden.  I  sent  it 
to  his  hospital  in  Michigan.  I  made  it  short, 
because  by  nature  I  write  just  endless,  having 
gotten  in  the  habit  from  making  up  stories  for 
the  girls  and  scribbling  them  off  when  kept  in, 
which  in  the  past  was  frequent.  This  is  what 
I  wrote: 

DR.  PARKE  ALDEN: 

Dear  Sir, — Eleven  weeks  and  two  days  ago  I  heard 
you  did  not  know  I  was  living.  I  am.  I  live  in  the 
Yorkburg  Female  Orphan  Asylum,  and  have  been 
living  here  for  nine  years  and  four  months  and  al 
most  a  week.  If  you  had  known  I  was  living  all 
these  years  and  had  not  made  yourself  acquainted 
with  me,  I  would  not  now  write  you.  But  I  heard, 
by  accident,  you  did  not  know  I  had  been  born,  so 
I  am  writing  to  tell  you  I  was.  It  happened  in 
Natchez,  Miss.  I  know  that  much,  but  little  more, 
except  my  father  was  an  actor.  I  worship  his  mem 
ory.  My  mother  was  named  Mary  Alden,  and  you 
are  her  brother.  If  you  would  like  to  know  more, 
and  will  write  and  ask  me,  I  think  you  will  learn 
something  of  interest.  Not  about  me,  but  there  are 
other  people  in  this  world. 

Respectfully,  MARY  GARY. 

123 


MARY   GARY 

Three  days  have  passed  since  I  sent  that 
letter  off  secret.  I  wouldn't  let  Miss  Katherine 
know  for  a  billion  dollars  that  I'd  sent  it,  but 
I'm  glad  I  did.  I'm  sure  she's  got  something 
in  her  heart  she  don't  talk  about,  for  last  night, 
when  she  didn't  know  I  was  looking,  I  saw  that 
same  quiet  proudness  come  in  her  face  I  saw 
the  night  of  the  ball. 

I  don't  know  how  long  it  takes  to  go  to 
Michigan,  not  knowing  much  about  travelling, 
as  I've  never  been  out  of  Yorkburg  since  I 
came  in.  But  some  day  I'm  going  around  the 
world,  and  I'm  going  to  see  everything  any 
body  else  has  ever  seen  before  I  marry  my 
children's  father.  Of  course,  after  I  get  mar- 
ied  he  will  be  busy,  and  there  will  be  always 
some  excuse  that  will  make  you  tired.  I'm 
going  beforehand.  Miss  Webb  says  marriage 
is  very  uncertain. 

This  is  a  grand  day.  The  crocuses  are  peep 
ing  up  just  as  pert  and  pretty.  The  little  brown 
buds  on  the  trees  have  turned  green  and  getting 
bigger  every  day,  and  even  the  air  feels  like 
it's  had  a  bath.  I  just  love  the  spring.  Every 
thing  says  to  you:  "Good-morning!  Here  we 
are  again.  Let's  begin  all  over."  And  inside 
I  say,  "All  right,"  and  I  mean  it;  but  oh,  Mary 
124 


A   TRUE   MIRACLE 

Gary,  you're  so  unreliable.  There  are  times 
when  your  future  looks  very  much  like  a  worm 
of  the  dust. 

Miss  Bray  is  real  sick.  She  hasn't  been  well 
for  a  long  time,  and  she  looks  like  she's  shrivel 
ling,  though  still  fat.  She  has  nervous  dys 
pepsia,  which  they  say  is  ruinous  to  dispositions, 
and  Miss  Bray's  isn't  the  kind  for  any  sort  of 
sickness  to  be  free  with. 

It  certainly  is  making  her  queer,  for  she's 
changed  from  sharpness  to  tearfulness,  and  she 
weeps  any  time.  A  thing  I  never  thought  I'd 
live  to  see. 

Poor  creature,  I  feel  real  sorry  for  her.  Miss 
Jones  says  she's  worn  out,  but  I  don't  believe 
it's  that.  I  believe  it's  conscience  and  coffee. 
Miss  Bray  isn't  an  all-over  bad  person.  If  it 
wasn't  I  knew  she  told  stories,  I  could  have 
stood  the  other  things.  But  when  a  person 
tells  stories,  what  have  you  got  to  hold  on  to  ? 
Nothing. 

I  believe  it's  those  stories  that's  giving  her 
trouble  in  her  stomach.  Anything  on  your 
mind  does,  and  Miss  Bray  looks  at  me  so  curi 
ous  and  so  nervous,  sometimes,  that  I  can't 
help  feeling  sorry  for  her. 

I  don't  believe  she  will  ever  get  well  until 
125 


MARY   GARY 

she  repents  and  confesses  and  crosses  her  heart 
that  she  won't  do  it  again.  A  confession  is  a 
grand  relief. 

Suppose  Dr.  Parke  Alden  don't  write,  don't 
notice  me!  I  will  be  that  mad  and  mortified 
I  will  wish  I  was  dead.  But  if  he  don't  answer 
that  letter,  I  will  write  a  few  more  things  to 
him  before  dying,  for,  if  I  am  an  Orphan,  I 
oughtn't  to  be  treated  like  a  piece  of  imagina 
tion. 

The  black  hen  has  got  a  lot  of  little  chickens 
and  the  jonquils  are  in  bloom.  The  sun  is  as 
warm  as  June,  but  I'm  shivering  all  the  time, 
and  Miss  Katherine  says  she  don't  understand 
me.  She  gave  me  a  tonic  to  make  me  eat 
more.  I  don't  want  to  eat.  I  want  a  letter. 

Jerusalem  the  Golden!  Now,  what  do  you 
reckon  has  happened!  Nothing  will  evermore 
surprise  Mary  Gary,  mostly  Martha. 

If  the  moon  ever  burns,  or  the  stars  come  to 
town,  or  the  Pope  marries  a  wife,  or  the  dead 
come  to  life,  I  will  just  say,  "Is  that  so?"  and 
in  my  heart  I  will  know  a  stranger  thing  than 
that. 

Yesterday  Miss  Bray  sent  for  me  to  come  to 
her  room.  She  was  sick  in  bed,  and  her  frizzes 
126 


A   TRUE   MIRACLE 

weren't  frizzed,  and  she  looked  so  old  and 
pitiful  that  I  took  hold  of  her  hand  and  said, 
"I'm  awful  sorry  you  are  sick,  Miss  Bray." 

And  what  did  she  do  but  begin  to  cry,  and 
such  a  long  crying  I  never  saw  anybody  have. 
I  knew  there  was  a  lot  to  come  out  and  she'd 
better  get  rid  of  it,  so  I  let  it  keep  on  without 
remarks,  and  after  a  while  she  told  me  to  shut 
the  door,  and  get  her  a  clean  handkerchief  out 
of  her  top  bureau-drawer. 

I  did  it.  Then  she  told  me  to  sit  down.  I 
did  that,  too,  and  it's  well  I  did.  If  I  hadn't 
I'd  have  fell.  Her  words  would  have  made 
me. 

"Mary  Gary,"  she  said,  "you  have  given  me 
a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  at  times  you've 
nearly  worried  me  to  death.  But  never  since 
you've  been  here  have  you  ever  told  a  story, 
and  that's  what  I've  done."  And  she  put  her 
head  down  in  her  pillow,  and  I  tell  you  she 
nearly  shook  herself  out  of  bed  she  cried  so. 

I  was  so  surprised  and  confused  I  didn't 
know  whether  I  was  awake  or  asleep.  But  all 
of  a  sudden  it  came  to  me  what  she  meant,  and 
I  put  my  arms  around  her  neck  and  kissed  her. 
That's  what  I  did,  Martha  or  no  Martha;  I 
kissed  her.  Then  I  said: 
127 


MARY   GARY 

1  'Miss  Bray,  I'm  awful  glad  you  are  sorry 
you  did  it.  If  you're  sorry  it's  like  a  sponge 
that  wipes  it  off,  and  don't  anybody  but  you 
and  me  and  God  know  about  that  particular 
one.  And  we  can  all  forget  it,  if  there's  never 
any  more." 

And  then  she  cried  harder  than  ever.  Regu 
lar  rivers.  I  didn't  know  the  top  of  your  head 
could  hold  so  much  water. 

But  she  said  there  would  never  be  any  more, 
for  she'd  never  had  any  peace  since  the  way  I 
looked  at  her  that  day,  and  she  couldn't  stand 
it  any  longer.  She  didn't  know  why  I  had 
that  effect  on  her,  but  I  did,  and  she'd  sent  for 
me  to  talk  about  it. 

Well,  we  talked.  I  told  her  I  didn't  think 
just  being  sorry  was  enough,  and  I  asked  her 
how  sorry  was  she. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  and  then  she  be 
gan  on  tears  again,  so  I  thought  I'd  better  be 
quick  while  the  feeling  lasted. 

"Well,  you  know,  Miss  Bray,"  I  began, 
"Pinkie  Moore  hasn't  been  adopted  yet.  She 
never  will  be  while  the  ladies  think  what  you 
told  them  is  true.  You  ought  to  write  a  letter 
to  the  Board  and  tell  them  what  you  said 
wasn't  so." 

128 


A   TRUE   MIRACLE 

"I  can't!"  she  said;  and  then  more  fountains 
flowed.  "I  can't  tell  them  I  told  a  story!" 

"But  that's  what  you  did,"  I  said.  "And 
when  you've  done  a  mean  thing,  there  isn't  but 
one  way  to  undo  it — own  up  and  take  what 
comes.  But  it's  nothing  to  a  conscience  that's 
got  you,  and  is  never  going  to  let  you  go  until 
you  do  the  square  thing.  If  you  want  peace, 
it's  the  only  way  to  get  it." 

"But  I  can't  write  a  letter;  I'm  so  nervous 
I  couldn't  compose  a  line."  And  you  never 
would  have  known  her  voice.  It  was  as  quavery 
as  old  Doctor  Fleury's,  the  Methodist  preacher 
who's  laid  off  from  work. 

"I'll  write  it  for  you."  And  I  hopped  for 
the  things  in  her  desk.  "You  can  copy  it 
when  you  feel  better."  And,  don't  you  know, 
she  let  me  do  it!  After  three  tryings  I  finished 
it,  then  read  it  out  loud: 

DEAR  LADIES, — If  any  one  applies  for  Pinkie  Moore, 
I  hope  you  will  let  her  go.  Pinkie  is  the  best  and 
most  useful  girl  in  the  Asylum.  More  than  two  years 
ago  I  said  differently.  It  was  wrong  in  me,  and  Pinkie 
isn't  untruthful.  She  hasn't  a  bad  temper,  and  never 
in  her  life  took  anything  that  didn't  belong  to  her. 
I  am  sorry  I  said  what  I  did.  She  don't  know  it 
and  never  will,  and  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  for 
saying  it.  Respectfully,  MOLLIE  E.  BRAY. 

I2Q 


MARY   GARY 

When  I  was  through  she  cried  still  harder, 
and  said  she'd  lose  her  place.  She  knew  she 
would.  I  told  her  she  wouldn't.  I  knew  she 
wouldn't.  And  after  a  while  she  sat  up  in 
bed  and  copied  it.  Some  of  her  tears  blotted 
it,  but  I  told  her  that  didn't  matter,  and  when 
I  got  up  to  go  she  looked  better  already. 

I  knew  how  she  felt.  Like  I  did  when  my 
tooth  that  had  to  come  out  was  out.  And  a 
thing  on  your  mind  is  worse  than  the  tooth 
ache.  One  you  can  tell,  the  other  you  can't. 
A  thing  you  can't  tell  is  like  a  spook  that's 
always  behind  you,  and  right  in  the  bed  with 
you  when  you  wake  up  sudden,  and  lies  down 
with  you  every  time  you  go  to  sleep.  I  know, 
for  that  letter  is  on  my  mind. 

When  I  got  out  of  Miss  Bray's  room  I  ran 
in  mine,  Miss  Katherine  being  out,  and  locked 
the  door,  and  I  said: 

"Mary  Martha  Gary,  don't  ever  say  again 
there's  no  such  things  as  modern  miracles. 
There's  been  a  miracle  to-day,  and  you  have 
seen  it.  Somebody  has  been  born  over."  And 
then,  because  I  couldn't  help  it,  I  cried  almost 
as  bad  as  Miss  Bray. 

But,  oh,  nobody  can  ever  know  how  much 
harm  it  had  done  me  to  believe  a  lady  could  go 
130 


A   TRUE   MIRACLE 

through  life  telling  stories,  and  doing  mean,  dis 
honorable  things,  and  not  minding.  And  people 
treating  her  just  the  same  as  if  she  were  honest! 

When  I  found  out  it  wasn't  so — that  your  sin 
did  make  you  suffer,  and  that  it  did  make  a 
difference  trying  to  do  right — I  felt  some  of 
my  old  Martha-ry  scornfulness  slipping  away. 
And  I  got  down  on  my  knees,  no  words,  but 
God  understanding  why. 

I  don't  like  any  kind  of  bitterness  in  my 
heart.  I'd  rather  like  people.  But  can  you 
like  a  deceiver?  You  can't. 

Dr.  Parke  Alden  has  taken  no  more  notice 
of  me  than  if  I  were  a  Juney-bug. 

I  wonder  if  Miss  Katherine  will  ever  marry. 
She  wasn't  meant  to  live  in  an  Orphan  Asylum. 
She  was  meant  to  be  the  Lady  of  the  House, 
and  to  wear  beautiful  clothes,  and  have  horses 
and  carriages  and  children  of  her  own,  and  to 
give  orders.  Instead  of  that,  she  is  here;  but 
sometimes  she  has  a  look  on  her  face  which  I 
call  "  Wai  ting."  Last  week  I  wrote  a  poem 
about  it.  This  is  it: 

"  In  the  winter,  by  the  fireside,  when  the  snow  falls 

soft  and  white, 

I  am  waiting,  hoping,  longing,  but  for  what  I  don't 
know  quite. 


MARY   GARY 

And  when  summer's  sunshine  shimmers,  and  the 

birds  sing  clear  and  sweet, 
I  am  waiting,  always  waiting,  for  the  joy  I  hope 

to  meet. 

"  It  will  be,  I  think,  my  husband,  and  the  home  he'll 

make  for  me; 
But  of  his  coming  or  home-making,  I  as  yet  no  signs 

do  see. 
But  I  still  shall  keep  on  waiting,  for  I  know  it's 

true  as  fate, 
When  you  really,  truly  hustle,  things  will  come  if 

just  you'll  wait." 

I  don't  think  much  of  that.  It  sounds  like 
"Dearest  Willie,  thou  hast  left  us,  and  thy  loss 
we  deeply  feel."  But  I  wasn't  meant  for  a 
poet  any  more  than  Miss  Katherine  for  an  old 
maid. 

Dr.  Parke  Alden  must  be  dead.  Either  that 
or  he's  no  gentleman,  or  he  didn't  get  my  letter. 
I  wish  I  hadn't  written  it.  I  wish  I  hadn't  let 
him  know  I  was  living.  But  it  was  Miss 
Katherine  I  was  thinking  about.  Thank  Heav 
en,  I  didn't  mention  her  name!  He  isn't  worth 
thinking  about,  and  I  think  of  nothing  else. 


XIII 


HIS   COMING 

|P  I  could  get  out  on  the  roof  and  shake 
hands  with  the  stars,  or  dance  with 
the  man  in  the  moon,  I  might  be  able 
to  write  it  down;  but  everything  in 
me  is  bubbling  and  singing  so,  I  can't 
keep  still  to  write.  But  I'm  bound 
to  put  down  that  he's  come.  He's  come! 

He  came  day  before  yesterday  morning  about 
ten  o'clock.  I  was  in  the  school-room,  and 
Mrs.  Blamire  opened  the  door  and  looked  in. 
"Mary  Gary  can  go  to  the  parlor,"  she  said. 
"Some  one  wishes  to  see  her." 

I  got  up  and  went  out,  not  dreaming  who  it 
was,  as  I  was  only  looking  for  a  letter;  and 
there,  standing  by  a  window  with  his  back  to 
me,  was  a  man,  and  in  a  minute  I  knew. 

I  couldn't  move,  and  I  couldn't  speak,  and 
Lot's  wife  wasn't  any  stiller  than  I  was. 

But  he  heard  me  come  in,  and  turned,  and, 
i33 


MARY   GARY 

oh!  it  is  so  strange  how  right  at  once  you  know 
some  things.  And  the  thing  I  knew  was  it  was 
all  true.  That  he'd  never  known  about  me 
until  he  got  my  letter.  For  a  minute  he  just 
looked  at  me.  We  didn't  either  of  us  say  a 
word,  and  then  he  came  toward  me  and  held 
out  his  hands. 

"Mary  Gary,"  he  said.  And  the  first  thing 
I  knew  I  was  crying  fit  to  break  my  heart,  with 
my  arms  around  his  neck,  and  he  holding  me 
tight  in  his.  His  eyes  were  wet,  too.  They 
were.  I  saw  them.  He  kissed  me  about  fifty 
times — though  maybe  not  more  than  twenty — 
and  I  had  such  a  strange  feeling  I  didn't  know 
whether  I  was  in  my  body  or  not.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  any  one  who  was  really  truly  my 
own  had  ever  come  to  see  me  since  I'd  been  an 
Orphan,  and  every  bit  of  sense  I  ever  had  rolled 
away  like  the  Red  Sea  waters.  Rolled  right  away. 

I  don't  remember  what  happened  next. 
Everything  is  a  jumble  of  so  many  kinds  of 
joys  that  I've  been  crazy  all  day.  But  I  wasn't 
too  crazy  to  see  the  look  on  his  face,  I  mean  on 
my  Uncle  Dr.  Parke  Alden's  face,  when  he  saw 
Miss  Katherine  coming  across  the  front  yard. 
We  were  standing  by  the  window,  and  as  he 
saw  her  he  looked  again,  as  if  he  didn't  see 


HIS   COMING 

good,  and  then  his  face  got  as  white  as  white 
wash.  He  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped 
his  lips  and  his  forehead  that  were  real  per 
spiring,  and  I  almost  danced  for  joy,  for  I 
knew  in  his  secret,  secret  heart  she  was  his 
sweetheart  still.  But  I  didn't  move  even  a 
toe.  I  just  said: 

"That's  Miss  Katherine  Trent.  She's  the 
trained  nurse  here.  Did  you  know  her  when 
she  lived  in  Yorkburg?" 

And  he  said  yes,  he  knew  her.  Just  that, 
and  nothing  else.  But  I  knew,  and  for  fear  I'd 
tell  him  I  knew,  I  flew  out  of  the  room  like  I 
was  having  a  fit,  and  met  Miss  Katherine  com 
ing  in  the  front  door. 

"Miss  Katherine,"  I  said,  "there's  a  friend 
of  yours  in  the  parlor  who  wants  to  see  you. 
Will  you  go  in?" 

She  walked  in,  just  as  natural,  humming  a 
little  tune,  and  I  walked  behind  her,  for  I 
wanted  to  see  it.  I  will  never  be  as  ready  for 
glory  as  I  was  that  minute.  I  could  have 
folded  my  hands  and  sailed  up,  but  I  didn't  sail. 
It's  well  I  didn't,  for  they  didn't  meet  at  all 
like  I  expected,  and  I  was  so  surprised  I  just 
said,  "Well,  sir!"  and  sat  right  down  on  the 
floor  and  looked  up  at  them. 


MARY   GARY 

They  didn't  see  me.  They  didn't  see  any 
thing  but  each  other;  but  if  they'd  had  the 
smallpox  they  couldn't  have  kept  farther  apart, 
just  bowing  formal,  and  not  even  offering  to 
shake  hands. 

My,  I  was  set  on!  I  didn't  think  they'd  meet 
that  way;  but  Miss  Becky  Cole,  who's  kinder 
crazy,  says  God  Almighty  don't  know  what  a 
woman  is  going  to  do  or  when  she's  going  to 
do  it.  Miss  Katherine  proved  it.  She  didn't 
fool  me,  though,  with  all  her  quietness  and  cool 
ness.  I  knew  her  heart  was  beating  as  hard 
as  mine,  and  I  jumped  up  and  said: 

"I  think  you  all  have  been  waiting  long 
enough  to  make  up,  and  it's  no  use  wasting  any 
more  time."  And  I  flew  out,  slamming  the 
door  tight,  and  shut  them  in. 

I  don't  know  what  happened  after  I  shut  that 
door.  But,  oh,  he's  grand!  He  is  thirty-six, 
and  big  and  splendid.  He  and  Miss  Katherine 
are  in  the  parlor  now.  Miss  Jones  says  every 
body  in  Yorkburg  knows  he's  here,  and  all 
talking.  All! 

I've  been  so  excited  since  the  first  day  he 

came  that  I've  had  little  sense.     But  my  natural 

little  is  coming  back,  and  I'm  trying  not  to  talk 

too  much.     Of   course,   I  had  to  say  a  good 

136 


HIS   COMING 

deal,  because  everybody  had  to  know  how  it 
happened  that  Doctor  Alden  came  back  to 
Yorkburg  so  suddenly  after  thirteen  years'  being 
away.  And  why  he  hadn't  been  before,  and 
what  he  came  for  and  when  he  was  going  away, 
and  if  he  were  going  to  take  me  with  him. 

And  then  everybody  remembered  how  he 
and  Miss  Katherine  used  to  be  sweethearts 
when  they  were  young.  I  tell  you,  the  talking 
that's  been  going  on  in  Yorkburg  in  the  last 
few  days  would  fill  a  barrel  of  books.  By  the 
end  of  the  week  a  whole  lot  more  will  be  known 
about  Uncle  Parke  than  he  knows  about  him 
self.  If  Yorkburg  had  a  coat  of  arms  it  ought 
to  be  a  question-mark. 

They've  had  time  to  talk  over  everything 
that  ever  happened  since  Adam  and  Eve  left 
Paradise,  in  the  long  walks  they  take,  and  in  the 
evenings  when  he  calls,  which  he  does  as  regu 
lar  as  night  comes.  And  now  I'm  waiting  for 
the  news.  I'll  have  to  be  so  surprised.  And 
I  guess  I  will  be.  Love  does  very  surprising 
things. 

Miss  Katherine  knew  where  Uncle  Parke  was 
all  the  time.  She  knew  who  I  was,  too ;  that  is, 
she  found  out  after  she  nursed  me  at  the 
hospital.  But  what  that  fuss  was  about  I  don't 


MARY   GARY 

know.  Nothing  much,  I  reckon;  but  the  more 
you  love  a  person  the  madder  you  can  get  with 
them.  And  from  foolishness  they've  wasted 
years  and  years  of  together-ness. 

But  it's  all  explained  now,  and  I  don't  think 
there's  going  to  be  any  more  nonsense.  They 
are  going  to  be  married  as  sure  as  my  name 
isn't  in  a  bank-book ;  and  if  signs  are  anything, 
it's  going  to  be  soon. 

Miss  Bray  is  better,  though  she  looks  pretty 
bad  still.  She's  been  awfully  excited  about 
Uncle  Parke's  coming,  and  she  says  she  hears 
he's  very  distinguished  and  real  rich.  Isn't  it 
strange  how  quick  some  people  hear  about 
riches?  I  don't  know  anything  of  his  having 
any.  He  hasn't  mentioned  money  to  me;  but 
oh,  I  feel  so  safe  with  him!  He's  so  strong 
and  quiet  and  easy  in  his  manners,  and  he's 
been  so  splendid  and  beautiful  to  me.  He 
don't  use  many  words.  Just  makes  you  un 
derstand. 

I  wonder  what  a  man  says  to  a  lady  when 
he  wants  her  to  marry  him  ?  I  know  Dr.  Parke 
Alden  isn't  the  kind  to  get  down  on  his  knees. 
If  he  were,  Miss  Katherine  would  certainly  tell 
him  to  get  up  and  say  what  he  had  to  say 
standing,  or  sitting,  if  it  took  long.  But  I'll 
138 


HIS   COMING 

never  know  what  he  said.  They're  not  the 
kind  to  tell;  but  they  can't  hide  Love.  It's 
just  like  the  sun.  It  can't  help  shining. 

Land  of  Nippon,  I'm  excited!  I  believe  he's 
said  it! 

The  reason  I  think  so  is,  I  saw  them  late 
yesterday  evening  coming  in  from  a  long  walk 
down  the  Calverton  road,  where  there's  a  beau 
tiful  place  for  courters.  When  they  got  to  the 
gate  they  stopped  and  talked  and  talked. 
Then  he  walked  to  the  door  with  her,  still 
holding  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  though  it  was 
dark  I  could  feel  something  different.  I  was 
so  nervous  you  would  have  thought  I  was  the 
one. 

I  was  over  by  the  lilacs;  but  they  didn't 
see  me.  I  didn't  like  to  move.  It  might 
have  been  ruinous,  so  I  held  my  breath  and 
waited. 

When  they  got  to  the  door  they  stopped 
again,  and  presently  he  held  out  his  hand  to 
say  good-bye.  The  way  he  did  it,  the  way  he 
looked  at  her  made  me  just  know,  and  I  got 
right  down  on  my  knees  under  the  lilac-bush, 
and  when  he'd  gone  I  sang,  "  Praise  God,  from 
whom  all  blessings  flow."  Sang  it  loud. 


MARY    GARY 

I  didn't  care  who  heard.  I  wasn't  telling 
why  I  was  thankful.  Just  telling  I  was.  Oh, 
Mary  Martha  Gary,  to  think  of  her  being  your 
really,  truly  Aunt!  The  very  next  thing  to  a 
mother! 


XIV 


THE   HURT   OF   HAPPINESS 

WOULDN'T  like  to  put  on  paper 
how  I  feel  to-day.  Uncle  Parke  has 
gone.  Gone  back  to  Michigan.  I'm 
such  a  mixture  of  feelings  that  I 
don't  know  which  I've  got  the  most 
of,  gladness  or  sadness  or  happiness 
or  miserableness,  and  I'd  rather  cry  as  much 
as  I  want  than  have  as  much  ice-cream  as  I 
could  hold. 

But  I'm  not  going  to  cry.  I  don't  like  cryers, 
and,  besides,  I  haven't  a  place  to  do  it  in  pri 
vate.  I  wouldn't  let  Miss  Katherine  see  me,  not 
if  I  died  of  choking.  I  ought  to  be  rejoicing, 
and  I  am;  but  the  female  heart  is  beyond 
understanding,  Miss  Becky  Cole  says,  and  it  is. 
Mine  is.  I  could  die  of  thankfulness,  but  I'd 
like  first  to  cry  as  much  as  I  could  if  I  let  go. 
They  are  engaged.  Uncle  Parke  and  Miss 
Katherine  are,  and  they  are  to  be  married  on 
141 


MARY   GARY 

the  twenty-seventh  of  June.  That's  my  birth 
day.  I  will  be  thirteen  on  the  twenty-seventh 
of  June. 

They  told  me  about  it  night  before  last.  I 
was  out  on  the  porch,  and  Miss  Katherine  called 
me  and  told  me  she  and  Doctor  Alden  wanted 
me  to  go  to  walk  with  them.  I  knew  what 
was  coming.  Knew  in  a  flash.  But  I  pretended 
not  to,  and  thanked  her  ever  so  much,  and 
told  her  I'd  just  love  to  go. 

We  walked  on  down  to  the  Calverton  road, 
talking  about  nothing,  and  making  out  it  was 
our  usual  night  walk,  but  when  we  got  to  the 
seven  maples  Uncle  Parke  stopped. 

"Suppose  we  sit  down,"  he  said.  "It's  too 
warm  to  walk  far  to-night."  And  after  we 
sat  he  threw  his  hat  on  the  ground,  then  leaned 
over  and  took  my  hands  in  his. 

"Mary  Gary,"  he  began.  And  though  his 
eyes  were  smiling,  his  voice  was  real  quivering. 
I  was  noticing,  and  it  was.  "Mary  Gary, 
Katherine  and  I  have  brought  you  with  us  to 
night  to  ask  if  you  have  any  objection  to  our 
being  married.  We  would  like  to  do  so  as 
soon  as  possible — if  you  do  not  object." 

He  turned  my  face  to  his,  and  the  look  in  his 
eyes  was  grand.     It  meant  no  matter  who  ob- 
142 


THE   HURT   OF   HAPPINESS 

jected,  marry  her  he  would ;  but  it  was  a  way  to 
tell  me — the  way  he  was  asking,  and  I  understood. 

"It  depends,"  I  said,  and,  as  I  am  always 
playing  parts  to  myself,  right  on  the  spot  I 
was  a  chaperon  lady.  "It  depends  on  whether 
you  love  enough.  Do  you?" 

"I  do.  For  myself  I  am  entirely  sure.  As 
to  Katherine —  Suppose  she  tells  you  what 
she  thinks." 

I  turned  toward  her.  "Do  you,  Miss  Kath 
erine  ?  It  takes — I  guess  it  takes  a  lot  of  love 
to  stand  marriage.  Do  you  think  you  have 
enough?" 

In  the  moonlight  her  face  changed  like  her 
opal  ring  when  the  cream  becomes  pink  and 
the  pink  red. 

"I  think  there  is,"  she  said.  Then:  "Oh, 
Mary  Gary,  why  are  you  such  a  strange,  strange 
child?"  And  she  threw  her  arms  around  me 
and  kissed  me  twenty  times. 

After  a  while,  after  we'd  talked  and  talked, 
and  they'd  told  me  things  and  I'd  told  them 
things,  I  said  I'd  consent. 

"But  if  the  love  ever  gives  out,  I'm  not 
going  to  stay  with  you,"  I  said.  "I'm  never 
going  to  be  fashionable  and  not  care  for  love. 
A  home  without  it  is  hell." 


MARY   GARY 

" Mercy,  Mary!"  Uncle  Parke  jumped.  "Don't 
use  such  strong  language.  It  isn't  nice." 

"But  it's  true.  I  read  it  in  a  book,  and  I've 
watched  the  Rices.  When  there's  love  enough 
you  can  stand  anything.  When  there  isn't, 
you  can  stand  nothing.  Living  together  every 
day  you  find  out  a  lot  you  didn't  know,  and 
love  can't  keep  still.  It's  got  to  grow  or 
die." 

Then  I  jumped  up.  "I  always  could  talk  a 
lot  about  things  I  didn't  understand,"  I  said. 
"But  I  consent."  And  I  flew  down  the  road 
and  left  them. 

I've  written  it  out  on  a  piece  of  paper,  about 
their  being  engaged,  and  looked  at  it  by  night 
and  by  day  since  they  told  me  about  it.  I've 
said  it  low,  and  I've  said  it  loud,  but  I  can't 
realize  it,  and  the  little  sense  the  Lord  gave 
me  He  has  taken  away. 

They  say  I  did  it.  Say  I'm  responsible  for 
every  bit  of  it,  and  that  I  will  have  to  look 
after  them  all  the  rest  of  their  lives  to  see  that 
I  didn't  make  a  mistake  in  writing  that  letter. 
And  that  I'm  to  go  to  Europe  with  them  on 
their  wedding  tour  and  live  with  them  always 
and  always.  And— oh!— I  believe  my  heart  is 
going  to  burst  with  miserable  happiness  and 
144 


THE   HURT   OF   HAPPINESS 

happy  miserableness,  and  my  head  feels  like 
it's  in  a  bag. 

Dr.  Parke  Alden  and  Miss  Katherine  Trent 
are  the  two  nicest  people  on  earth,  and  the  two 
I  love  best.  But  I  don't  think  they  know  all 
the  time  what  they  are  doing  and  saying. 
They  are  that  in  love  they  don't  see  but  one 
side — the  happy  side — and  they  think  I  am 
going  to  leave  this  place  with  a  skip  and  a 
jump  and  run  along  by  them,  third  person, 
single  number,  and  not  know  I'm  in  the  way. 

They  won't  even  listen  when  I  tell  them  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  do.  I  know 
what  I  want  to  do!  Everything  in  me  gets 
into  shivering  trembleness  when  I  think  I 
could  go  to  Europe  with  them  on  their  wedding 
trip.  Think  of  it!  Mary  Gary  could  go  to 
E-U-R-O-P-E! 

They've  invited  me  and  say  I'm  to  go,  be 
cause  I'm  never  to  leave  them  any  more,  and 
they  want  me.  But  it  isn't  so.  Mary  tries  to 
believe  it's  so,  but  Martha  knows  it  isn't. 
They  think  they  think  they  want  me,  but  they 
don't ;  nobody  wants  an  outsider  on  a  wedding 
tour,  and  I'm  not  going.  I  can't  help  it.  Come 
on,  tears!  Even  angels  sometimes  cry  aloud; 
and,  not  being  a  step-relation  to  one,  I'm  going 


MARY   GARY 

to  let  Mary  cry  if  she  wants  to.  Sometimes 
Martha  is  real  hard  on  Mary. 

There  is  no  use  studying  Human  Nature. 
You  can't  study  a  thing  that  changes  by  day 
and  by  night,  and  is  so  uncertain  you  never 
know  what  it  is  going  to  do.  Now,  here  is 
Mary  Gary,  mostly  Martha,  who  would  rather 
get  on  a  train  or  a  boat  and  go  somewhere — 
she  don't  care  where — than  to  do  any  other 
thing  on  earth.  Who  has  never  seen  anything 
and  wants  to  see  everything,  and  who,  if  any 
one  had  told  hQr  a  year  ago  she  could  go  to 
New  York,  and  then  to  Europe,  would  have 
slid  down  every  flight  of  stairs  head  foremost 
from  pure  joy.  And  now  she  has  the  chance, 
she  is  not  going.  She  is  Not. 

She  hasn't  much  sense,  Mary  Gary  hasn't, 
but  enough  to  know  wedding  trips  are  personal, 
and,  besides,  the  girls  have  turned  into  regular 
weepers.  Every  time  anything  is  said  about 
going  away  their  eyes  water  up,  and  Martha 
feels  like  a  yellow  dog  with  no  tail.  I  know 
they  hate  Miss  Katherine's  going;  but  why  do 
they  cry  about  my  going?  Lord,  this  is  a 
strange  place  to  live  in,  this  world  is!  I  won 
der  what  heaven  will  be  like? 

Miss  Bray  is  much  better.  She  says  Uncle 
146 


THE   HURT   OF   HAPPINESS 

Parke  has  cured  her.     I  don't  believe  it.     I 
believe  it  was  Relief  of  the  Mind. 

I  wasn't  meant  to  be  a  sad  person.  I  was 
silly  sad  the  other  day;  but  I've  found  out 
when  anything  bothers  you  very  much,  it  helps 
to  take  it  out  and  look  at  it.  Walk  all  around 
it,  poke  it  and  see  if  it's  sure  enough,  and,  if 
it  isn't,  tell  it  you'll  see  it  dead  before  you'll 
let  it  do  you  that  way. 

That's  what  I  did  with  what  was  making 
me  doleful,  and  now  I'm  all  right  again.  It 
was  because  I  did  want  to  go  to  Europe  awful, 
and  it  twisted  my  heart  like  a  machine  had  it 
when  I  turned  my  back  on  the  chance.  And 
then,  too,  it  was  because  the  girls  begged  me 
so  not  to  go  away  for  good  that  I  got  so  wor 
ried. 

They  said  it  wouldn't  be  the  same  if  I  wasn't 
here,  and  though  they  didn't  blame  me,  they 
begged  me  so  not  to  go  that  I  got  as  addled 
as  the  old  black  hen  that  hatched  ducks. 

Now,  did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing  ?  As 
if  it  really  mattered  where  Mary  Gary  lived  ! 
I  didn't  know  anybody  truly  cared,  and  finding 
out  made  me  light  in  the  head.  But  I  know 
that's  just  passing — their  caring,  I  mean.  I'm 


MARY   GARY 

much  obliged;   but  they'll  forget  it  in  a  little 
while,  and  I  will  be  just  a  memory. 

I  hope  it  will  be  bright.  There's  so  much 
dark  you  can't  help  that  a  brightness  is  real 
enjoyable.  They  say  what  you  look  for  you 
see,  and  what  you  want  to  forget  you  mustn't 
remember.  There  are  a  lot  of  things  about  my 
Orphan  life  I'm  going  to  try  to  forget.  But 
there  are  some  that  for  the  sake  of  sense,  and 
in  case  of  airs,  I  had  better  bear  in  mind.  I 
guess  Martha  will  see  to  those.  Whenever 
Mary  gives  signs  of  soaring,  Martha  brings  her 
straight  back  to  earth.  Martha  doesn't  care 
for  soarers,  and  she  has  a  terrible  bad  habit  of 
letting  them  know  she  don't. 

Yorkburg  hasn't  settled  down  yet,  and  is  still 
hanging  on  to  the  last  remnants  of  the  surprise 
about  Uncle  Parke's  coming,  and  about  his 
marriage  to  Miss  Katherine  and  my  going 
away. 

Of  course,  Miss  Amelia  Cokeland  wanted  to 
know  if  he'd  made  the  Asylum  a  present,  and 
how  much.  At  first  nobody  would  tell  her. 
She's  got  such  a  ripping  curiosity  that  there 
isn't  a  sneeze  sneezed  in  Yorkburg,  or  a  cake 
baked,  or  a  door  shut  that  she  doesn't  want 
to  know  why.  But  maybe  she  can't  help  it. 
148 


THE   HURT   OF   HAPPINESS 

Some  people  are  natural  inquirers,  and  that's 
the  way  she  makes  her  living,  telling  the  news. 

She  used  to  work  buttonholes,  but  since  she 
can't  see  good  she  just  spends  the  day  out  and 
tells  all  she  hears.  Nobody  really  likes  her, 
but  her  tongue  is  too  sharp  to  fool  with.  To 
keep  from  being  talked  about,  everybody  pre 
tends  to  be  friendly. 

I  don't.  She  shook  her  finger  at  me  once 
because  I  wouldn't  tell  her  what  was  in  Miss 
Katherine's  letter  the  first  time  she  went  away, 
and  since  then  she's  never  noticed  me  until 
Uncle  Parke  came.  Now  every  time  I  see  her 
she's  awful  pleasant,  and  tries  to  make  me  talk. 
But  a  ringer  once  shook  is  shook.  I  don't 
talk. 

But  Uncle  Parke  did  make  the  Asylum  a 
present.  He  didn't  tell  me,  neither  did  Miss 
Katherine,  and  I  don't  think  he  wanted  any 
body  but  the  Board  ladies  to  know.  But,  of 
course,  they  couldn't  keep  it  secret.  They 
told  their  husbands,  and  that  meant  the  town. 
Nothing  but  a  dead  man  could  keep  from  talk 
ing  about  money. 

It  must  have  been  a  lot  he  gave,  for  Peelie 
Duke  told  me  she  heard  Mrs.  Carr  and  Mrs. 
Dent  talking  about  it  the  day  she  took  some 
149 


MARY   GARY 

apple- jelly  for  Miss  Jones  over  to  little  Jessie 
Carr,  who  was  sick. 

"He  could  have  kept  her  at  a  fashionable 
boarding-school  from  the  day  she  was  born 
until  now  for  the  sum  he's  turned  over  to  the 
Board,"  said  Mrs.  Carr,  and  her  eyes,  which 
are  the  beaming  kind,  just  danced,  Peelie 
said. 

"Well,  he  ought  to,"  grunted  Mrs.  Dent, 
who  talks  like  her  tongue  was  down  her  throat. 
"He  ought  to!  We've  been  taking  care  of  the 
child  for  almost  ten  years.  I  hear  he  wants 
the  house  put  in  good  condition,  a  new  dining- 
room  and  kitchen  built  and  four  bath-rooms. 
The  rest  is  to  go  to  the  endowment.  I  think 
more  ought  to  go  to  the  endowment  and  less 
for  these  luxuries.  I  don't  approve  of  them. 
An  Orphan  Asylum  is  not  a  hotel." 

"No,  but  it  ought  to  be  a  home,  if  possible," 
said  Mrs.  Carr,  and  Peelie  said  she  looked  at 
Mrs.  Dent  like  she  wondered  how  under  heaven 
her  husband  stood  her  all  the  time. 

I  certainly  am  glad  to  know  I'm  paid  for. 
Some  day,  when  I'm  grown  and  earning  my 
own  living,  before  I  marry  my  children's  father, 
I  am  going  to  give  as  much  as  I  can  of  that 
money  back  to  Uncle  Parke.  Of  course  that 
150 


THE   HURT   OF   HAPPINESS 

will  be  some  time  off,  and  until  then  I'll  just 
have  to  try  to  be  a  nice  person. 

Miss  Katherine  says  a  whole  lot  of  people 
would  pay  a  big  price  to  have  a  nice  person 
in  the  house  with  them — one  of  those  cheer 
ful,  sunshiny  kind  that  helps  and  is  encourag 
ing,  and  gets  up  again  when  they  fall  down. 
As  I  can't  earn  money  yet,  I'm  going  to  try  to 
be  something  like  that,  so  they  won't  be  sorry 
I  ever  was  born.  Uncle  Parke  and  Miss  Kath 
erine  won't. 

But  isn't  it  strange,  when  the  time  comes 
for  you  to  do  a  thing  you  are  crazy  to  do,  you 
wish  it  hadn't  come  ? 

There  have  been  days  when  I  hated  this 
Asylum.  I've  felt  at  times  that  I  was  just 
one  of  the  numbers  of  the  multiplication 
table,  and  in  all  my  life  I'd  never  be  anything 
else.  And  I'd  almost  sw^eep  the  bricks  up  out 
of  the  yard,  I'd  be  so  mad  to  think  I  was  noth 
ing  and  nobody. 

I  wanted  to  be  something  and  somebody.  I 
didn't  want  to  die  and  be  forgotten.  I  would 
have  liked  to  sit  on  St.  John's  Church  steeple 
and  have  everybody  look  at  me  and  say: 

"That's  Mary  Gary!  She's  great  and  rich, 
and  gives  away  lots  of  money  and  sings  like 


MARY   GARY 

an  angel."  That's  what  I  once  would  have 
liked,  but  I've  learned  a  few  things  since  I  didn't 
know  then. 

One  is  that  high  places  are  lonely  and  hard 
and  uncomfortable,  and  people  who  have  sat  on 
them  have  sometimes  wished  they  didn't.  Miss 
Katherine  told  me  that  herself,  also  that  the 
place  you're  in  is  pretty  near  what  you're 
fitted  to  fill.  Otherwise  you'd  get  out  and  fill 
another. 

I've  given  up  steeples  and  superiorities.  But 
I'm  glad  I'm  not  going  to  be  an  orphan,  just 
an  orphan,  all  my  life.  I'm  glad;  still,  when  I 
think  of  going  away  and  leaving  everybody  and 
everything  :  the  old  pump,  where  I  drowned 
my  first  little  chicken  washing  it ;  and  the  old 
mulberry- tree,  where  my  first  doll  was  buried; 
and  the  garret,  where  I  made  up  ghost-stories 
for  the  girls  on  rainy  days;  and  the  school 
room;  and  even  No.  4 — when  I  think  of  these 
things,  I  could  be  like  that  man  in  the  Bible 
(I  believe  it  was  David,  but  it  might  have 
been  Jonah),  I  could  lift  up  my  voice  and 
weep. 

But  I'm  not  going  to.  Weepers  are  a 
nuisance. 

I  guess  that's  the  way  with  life,  though. 
152 


THE   HURT   OF   HAPPINESS 

When  things  are  going,  you  try  to  hold  them 
back.  And  if  you  got  them,  you'd  maybe  wish 
you  hadn't. 

That's  the  way  Mrs.  Gaines  did  when  her 
husband  died.  I  mean  when  he  didn't  die  that 
first  time.  She  thought  he  was  going  to,  and 
so  did  everybody  else.  He  had  Fright's  dis 
ease,  and  it  affected  his  heart,  being  liable  to 
take  him  off  any  time,  and  Mrs.  Gaines  just 
carried  on  terrible. 

She  had  faintings  and  hysterics,  and  said  she 
couldn't  live  without  him,  though  everybody 
in  Yorkburg  knew  she  could,  and  easy  enough. 
He  without  her,  too,  had  she  gone  first.  She 
had  asthma  and  an  outbreaking  temper,  and 
he  drank. 

Mrs.  Mosby — she's  the  doctor's  wife — said 
she  didn't  blame  him.  No  man  could  stand 
Mrs.  Gaines  all  the  time  without  something  to 
help,  and  everybody  hoped  when  he  got  so  ill 
that  he'd  die  and  have  a  little  rest.  But  he 
didn't.  He  got  better. 

Mrs.  Gaines  was  so  surprised  she  was  down 
right  disagreeable  about  it,  and  how  he  stood 
it  was  a  wonder.  He  didn't  long,  for  the  next 
summer  he  was  dead  sure  enough,  and  Mrs. 
Gaines  put  on  the  longest  crepe  veil  ever  seen 
11  *53 


MARY   GARY 

in  the  South,  she  said.  It  touched  the  hem  of 
her  skirt  in  front  and  behind;  but  she  cut  it 
in  half  after  everybody  had  seen  it  often 
enough  to  know  how  long  it  was. 

If  Augustus  Gaines  thought  she  was  going 
to  ruin  her  eyes  and  choke  her  lungs  by  wearing 
unhealthy  crepe  over  her  face  he  thought 
wrong,  she  said,  and  in  a  few  months  it  was 
gone  and  she  was  as  gay  as  a  girl  She's  what 
they  call  a  character,  Mrs.  Gaines  is. 

I  don't  want  to  be  like  her,  and  I  don't  ex 
pect  to  do  any  groaning  over  leaving  York- 
burg.  I  want  to  live  with  Uncle  Parke  and 
Miss  Katherine,  and  I'm  going  to.  But  it's 
strange  how  many  happy  things  hurt. 


XV 

A   REAL  WEDDING 

JT  looks  as  if  everybody  who  knows 
Miss  Katherine  wants  her  to  be  mar 
ried  from  their  house.  Her  brothers 
want  her  to  be  married  from  theirs. 
Her  aunt,  Mrs.  Powhatan  Bloodgood, 
who  lives  in  Loudon  County,  and 
whose  husband  is  as  rich  as  a  real  lord,  begs 
her  to  be  married  in  hers;  and  everybody  in 
Yorkburg— I  mean  the  coat-of-arms  every- 
bodies— has  invited  her  to  have  the  wedding 
in  their  home. 

But  she  just  smiles  and  says  no  to  them  all. 
Says  she  is  going  to  be  married  from  her  house, 
which  is  the  Orphan  Asylum,  though  the  cere 
mony  will  be  at  the  church.  It's  going  to  be 
in  the  morning  at  twelve  o'clock,  so  they  can 
take  the  two-o'clock  train  for  Richmond  and 
go  on  to  New  York. 

Miss  Katherine  wants  it  to  be  quiet,  but  it 


MARY   GARY 

can't  be  quiet.  There's  nothing  on  human 
legs  that  can  use  them  who  won't  be  at  the 
church  to  see  that  wedding  take  place. 

Everybody  has  been  paying  her  a  lot  of 
attention  of  late.  It's  real  strange  what  a  dif 
ference  a  man  makes  in  a  marriage,  even  if  he 
isn't  noticed  much  in  person  at  the  time.  If 
he's  rich  and  prominent,  everybody  is  so  pleas 
ant  and  sociable  you'd  think  they  were  real 
intimate.  If  he's  just  good  and  poor,  few  take 

notice. 

When  Miss  Vickie  Toones  married  Mr.  Joe 
Blake  they  didn't  get  hardly  any  presents. 
They  had  a  lot  of  dead  relations  who  used  to 
be  rich  and  haughty,  but  their  living  ones  are 
as  poor  as  the  people  they  didn't  used  to  know, 
and  hardly  anybody  gave  them  anything  hand 
some. 

Miss  Katherine's  presents  are  just  amazing, 
and  my  eyes  are  blistered  by  the  shine  of  them. 
I  didn't  know  before  such  things  were  in  the 
world.  People  say  Uncle  Parke  has  made  a 
lot  of  money  in  some  mines  out  West,  besides 
being  a  doctor,  and  that  he  doesn't  have  to 
work.  "But  a  man  who  doesn't  work  hasn't 
any  excuse  for  living,"  I  heard  him  tell  some 
body,  and  maybe  it's  so,  though  I  don't  know. 
156 


A    REAL   WEDDING 

I  don't  know  anything  these  days.  I'm  the 
shape  and  size  of  Mary  Gary,  but  I  see  and 
hear  so  many  things  I  never  saw  and  heard 
before  that  I'd  like  to  borrow  a  dog  to  see  if 
he  knows  whether  I  am  myself  or  somebody 
else.  And  another  thing  I'd  like  to  find  out 
is,  How  do  other  people  know  so  much? 

Mrs.  Philip  Creekmore  has  a  cousin  whose 
wife's  brother  lives  in  the  same  place  Uncle 
Parke  does,  and  Miss  Amelia  Cokeland  wrote 
out  there  and  found  out  all  about  him.  But 
it  doesn't  matter  whether  she  truly  knows  any 
thing  or  not.  Miss  Webb  says  she  is  like  those 
fish  scientists.  Give  her  one  bone,  and  she  can 
tell  you  all  the  rest.  She's  had  a  grand  time 
telling  more  things  about  Uncle  Parke  than 
Miss  Katherine  will  ever  learn  in  this  world. 

My  dress  is  finished.  I'm  to  be  Maiden  of 
Honor.  There  are  no  bridesmaids.  Think  of 
it!  Me,  Mary  Gary,  once  just  flesh  and  blood 
mechanical,  now  a  living  creature  who  is  to 
wear  a  white  Swiss  dress  and  a  sash  with  pink 
rosebuds  on  it,  and  walk  up  the  church  aisle 
with  my  arms  full  of  roses.  And— magnificent 
gloriousness!  most  beautiful  of  all! — every  girl 
in  this  Asylum  is  to  have  a  white  dress  and  a 
sash  the  color  she  likes  best  to  wear  to  the 


MARY   GARY 

wedding.  That's  my  wedding  gift  to  the  girls. 
Uncle  Parke  gave  it  to  me. 

Miss  Katherine's  California  brother  and  his 
wife  have  come.  I  don't  like  them.  He  looks 
bored  to  death,  and  chews  the  end  of  his 
mustache  till  you  wonder  there's  any  left.  As 
for  her,  she's  the  limit.  Maybe  that's  what's 
the  matter  with  him. 

She  seems  to  be  afraid  some  of  us  might 
touch  her,  and  she  stares  as  if  we  were  figures 
in  a  china-shop.  No  more  says  good-morning 
than  if  we  were. 

She  wears  seven  rings  on  one  hand  and  four 
on  another,  and  rustles  so  when  she  walks  she 
sounds  like  a  churner  out  of  order.  If  she  isn't 
a  bulgarian  born,  she's  bought  herself  into 
being  one,  for  she  oozes  money.  It's  the  only 
thing  you  think  of  when  she's  around.  You 
can  actually  smell  it.  I  think  Miss  Katherine 
is  sorry  they  came.  She  don't  say  it,  of  course, 
but  plenty  of  things  don't  have  to  be  said. 

Uncle  Parke  came  last  night,  bringing  his 
best  friend  and  some  others.  The  best  one  is 
Doctor  Willwood.  He's  fine.  He  and  I  are 
going  to  come  down  the  aisle  together.  I 
reach  up  to  his  elbow,  and  he  says  he  may 
put  me  in  his  pocket.  I  wish  he  would.  I 
158 


A   REAL   WEDDING 

know  I  will  be  that  frightened  I'd  be  glad  to 
get  in  it. 

He  wants  to  know  all  about  Yorkburg  and 
the  people,  and  to-day  Miss  Bray  let  me  take 
him  all  around  the  town  and  show  him  the 
antiquities.  He  asked  her.  I  had  on  the  white 
dress  Miss  Katherine  gave  me  last  summer,  and 
I  looked  real  nice,  for  I  had  on  my  company 
manners,  too. 

You  see,  he  was  from  the  West,  and  had 
never  been  to  Virginia  before ;  and  when  a  man 
comes  such  a  long  way,  one  ought  to  put  on 
company  manners  and  be  extra  polite.  It 
wouldn't  be  right  not  to.  I  put  mine  on,  and 
I  guess  I  did  do  a  lot  of  talking.  I'm  by  nature 
a  talker,  just  like  I  can't  help  skipping  when 
my  heart  is  happy  and  nothing  hurts. 

I  told  him  about  all  the  places  we  came  to, 
and  about  who  lived  in  them,  except  the  Alden 
house  which  the  Reagans  now  possess.  When 
we  got  there  he  stopped  in  front  of*  it. 

"My!"  he  said,  "that's  a  beautiful  old  place! 
Whose  is  it?" 

"Some  people  by  the  name  of  Reagan  live 
there,"  I  said.  "I  don't  know  them."  And 
I  started  on. 

I  came  near  forgetting,  and  saying,   "That 


MARY   GARY 

is  Alden  house,  where  my  grandfather  used  to 
live,"  but  I  remembered  in  time.  I  don't  ac 
knowledge  my  grandfather,  and  I  knew  some 
body  else  would  tell  him  Uncle  Parke  was  born 
and  lived  there  until  he  went  West. 

We  had  a  grand  time.  We  stayed  out  over 
four  hours,  and  I  forgot  all  about  dinner.  He 
didn't  want  to  go  in  when  I  suddenly  remem 
bered  and  told  him  I  must,  and  then  he  said 
I  was  going  to  take  dinner  with  him  at  the 
Colonial.  He'd  asked  Miss  Bray,  and  it  was 
all  right.  And  that's  what  I  did.  Took  dinner 
with  him  at  the  Colonial! 

I  tell  you,  Mary  Martha  Cary  had  what  you 
could  truly  call  a  Time.  And  Doctor  Will  wood 
said  he  never  had  enjoyed  a  morning  in  his  life 
like  that  one.  Laugh?  I  never  heard  a  man 
laugh  so  hearty.  Half  the  time  I  couldn't  tell 
why.  I'd  be  real  serious,  but  he'd  look  at  me 
and  almost  die  laughing.  I  bet  I  said  some 
things  I  oughtn't,  but  I  don't  remember,  and 
I  couldn't  take  them  back  if  I  did. 

It's  over.  The  wedding  is  over.  Every 
thing  is  after  a  while  in  this  life,  even  death; 
and  time  is  the  only  thing  that  keeps  on  just 
the  same. 

1 60 


A   REAL   WEDDING 

They're  gone.  Gone  on  their  bridal  tour, 
and  the  happiness  that's  left  Yorkburg  would 
run  a  family  for  a  long  life.  I  wish  everybody 
could  have  seen  that  wedding.  It's  going  to 
be  long  remembered,  for  the  earth  and  sky, 
and  birds  and  flowers,  and  trees  and  sunshine 
all  took  part.  Everything  tried  to  help,  and 
as  for  blessings  on  them,  they  took  away 
enough  for  the  human  race.  But  now  it's  over 
I  feel  like  my  first  balloon  looked  when  I  stuck 
a  pin  in  it  to  see  what  would  happen.  I  saw. 

I  had  a  telegram  from  them  to-day.     It  said: 

We  sail  at  eleven  o'clock.  Love  to  all,  and  hearts 
full  for  Mary  Cary. 

UNCLE  PARKE  and  AUNT  KATHERINE. 

Well,  she's  my  Aunt  now.  That's  fixed,  any 
how,  and  the  marriage  that  fixed  it  was  a 
beauty.  Every  bird  in  Yorkburg  was  singing, 
every  flower  was  blooming,  and  every  heart 
was  blessing;  and  when  those  fifty-eight 
orphans  walked  in,  all  in  white  and  two  by 
two,  every  hand  was  dropping  roses.  And  that 
is  what  each  girl  was  wishing:  Roses,  roses  all 
her  life! 

After  the  ushers,  I  came  in  all  alone  by  my 
self;  that  is,  my  shape  did.  Mary  was  really 
161 


MARY   GARY 

inside  the  altar  looking  at  me  coming  up  slow 
and  easy,  and  Martha  was  ordering  me  to  keep 
step  to  the  music.  ''All  right,  I'm  doing  my 
best,"  I  was  saying  to  both.  And  I  was,  but 
I  was  thankful  when  I  got  to  where  I  could 
stop,  for  my  legs  were  so  excited  I  wouldn't 
have  been  surprised  if  they'd  turned  and  run 
out. 

Behind  me  came  Miss  Katherine,  on  her  Army 
brother's  arm.  He's  as  nice  as  the  other  isn't. 
He  hasn't  got  the  money-making  disease. 
When  Uncle  Parke  and  Doctor  Willwood  came 
out  of  the  vestry-room  Uncle  Parke  gave  me 
one  look,  just  one,  but  it  was  so  understanding 
I  winked  back,  and  then  he  came  farther  down 
and  stood  by  Miss  Katherine  like  she  was  his 
until  kingdom  come,  forever  more.  Amen. 

Then  the  minister  began,  and  the  music  was 
so  soft  you  could  hear  the  birds  outside.  The 
breeze  through  the  window  blew  right  on  Miss 
Katherine's  veil,  and  I  was  so  busy  watching 
it  I  didn't  know  the  time  had  come  to  pray, 
and  I  hardly  got  my  head  bent  before  I  had 
to  take  it  up  again.  Then  the  minister  was 
through,  and  I  was  walking  down  the  aisle 
with  Doctor  Willwood,  and  in  just  about  two 
minutes  more  we  were  back  at  the  Asylum, 
162 


A   REAL   WEDDING 

and  it  was  all  over — the  thing  we'd  been  look 
ing  forward  to  so  long. 

The  Asylum  looked  real  nice  that  morning. 
There  were  bushels  and  bushels  of  flowers  in  it, 
for  everybody  in  town  who  had  any  sent  them. 
Flowers  cover  a  multitude  of  poverties.  The 
reception  was  grand.  That  California  Richness 
called  it  a  breakfast,  but  that  was  pure  style. 
Yorkburg  don't  have  breakfast  between  twelve 
and  one,  and  everybody  else  called  it  a  recep 
tion.  As  for  the  people  at  it,  there  were  more 
kinds  than  were  ever  in  one  dining-room  be 
fore;  and  every  single  one  had  a  good  time. 
Every  one. 

You  see,  Miss  Katherine,  besides  being  who 
she  was,  was  what  she  was.  Having  known  a 
great  deal  about  all  sorts  of  people  since  being 
a  nurse,  and  finding  out  that  the  plain  and  the 
fancy,  the  rich  and  the  poor,  those  who've  had 
a  chance  and  those  who  haven't,  are  a  heap 
more  alike  than  people  think,  she  said  she  was 
going  to  invite  to  her  wedding  whoever  she 
wanted.  And  she  did. 

There  wasn't  one  invited  who  didn't  come: 

the  bent  and  the  broke  and  the  blind  (that's 

true,  for  old  Mr.  Forbes  is  bent,  and  Mrs.  Rowe's 

hip  was    broken   and    she   uses  crutches,  and 

163 


MARY    GARY 

Bobbie  Anderson  is  blind) ;  and  the  old,  that's 
the  high-born  coat-of-arms  kind;  and  the  new, 
that's  the  Reagans  and  Hinchmans  and  some 
others,  and  Mr.  Pinkert  the  shoemaker,  who, 
she  says,  is  a  gentleman  if  he  don't  remember 
his  grandfather's  name;  and  Miss  Ginnie  Grant, 
who  made  her  underclothes — all  were  there. 
All.  It  was  a  different  wedding  from  any  that 
was  ever  before  in  Yorkburg,  and  if  any  feel 
ings  were  hurt  it  was  because  they  were  trying 
to^be.  Some  feelings  are  kept  for  that  purpose. 

Of  course,  Mrs.  Christopher  Pryor  had  re 
marks  to  make.  "Katherine  always  was  too 
independent,"  I  heard  her  tell  Miss  Queechy 
Spence.  "But  I  don't  believe  in  anything  of 
the  kind.  If  you  once  let  people  get  out  of 
the  place  they  were  born  in,  there'll  be  no  doing 
anything  with  them.  You  mark  me,  if  this 
wedding  don't  make  trouble.  Some  of  these 
people  will  expect  to  be  invited  to  my  house 
next."  And  she  took  another  helping  of  salad 
that  was  enough  for  three.  She's  an  awful  eater. 

"Oh  no,  they  won't,"  said  Miss  Queechy. 
"They  know  better  than  to  expect  anything 
like  that  of  you,"  and  she  gave  me  a  little  wink 
and  walked  off  with  Mr.  Morris,  who's  her  beau. 
I  went  off,  too.  It  isn't  safe  for  Martha  Cary 
164 


A   REAL   WEDDING 

to  be  too  near  Mrs.   Pryor,   for  Mary  never 
knows  what  she  may  do. 

And,  oh,  you  ought  to  have  seen  Miss  Bray! 
She  was  stepsister  to  the  Queen  of  Sheba. 
Solomon  never  had  a  wife  arrayed  like  she  was 
on  that  twenty-seventh  day  of  June.  I  believe 
she  is  engaged  to  Doctor  Rudd.  I  really  do. 

You  see,  after  people  got  over  teasing  him 
about  that  make-believe  wedding,  he  got  to 
thinking  about  her.  He's  bound  to  know  he 
isn't  much  of  a  man,  and  no  young  girl  would 
have  him,  so  lately  he's  been  ambling  'round 
Miss  Bray.  If  he  can  stand  her,  he'll  do  well 
to  get  her.  She's  a  grand  manager  on  little. 

He  was  at  the  wedding,  too.  His  beard  was 
flowinger  and  redder,  and  the  part  in  the  back 
of  his  head  shininger  than  ever.  He  had  an 
elegant  time.  He  was  so  full  of  himself  you 
would  have  thought  it  was  his  own  party. 

Uncle  Parke  and  Aunt  Katherine  have  been 
on  the  ocean  three  days.  I  wonder  if  they  are 
sick.  I  don't  think  I  will  go  to  Europe  with 
my  children's  father.  I  was  seasick  once  on 
land,  and  there  wasn't  a  human  being  I  even 
liked  that  day.  It  would  be  bad  to  find  out 
so  soon  that  the  very  sight  of  your  husband 
makes  you  ill.  After  you  know  him  better, 
165 


MARY   GARY 

you  could  tell  him  to  go  off  somewhere ;  but  at 
first  I  suppose  you  have  to  be  polite. 

They  were  awful  nice  about  wanting  me  to 
go  with  them.  The  bride  and  groom  were. 
They  said  I  had  to,  and  they  were  so  surprised 
when  I  said  I  couldn't  that  they  didn't  think 
I  meant  it.  When  they  found  out  I  did,  they 
were  dreadfully  worried,  and  didn't  know  what 
to  do  next.  There  wasn't  anything  to  do,  and 
here  I  am.  Here  I'm  going  to  be,  too,  until 
the  first  day  of  October,  when  they  will  be  back, 
and  we  will  start  for  the  West,  for  Michigan. 

I'm  going  to  like  Michigan.  I've  decided 
before  I  get  there.  I  know  there  will  be  some 
thing  to  like,  there  always  is  in  every  place 
and  every  person,  Miss  Katherine  says,  if  you 
just  will  see  it  instead  of  the  all  wrong.  I  was 
by  nature  born  critical.  There  are  a  lot  of 
things  I  don't  like  in  this  world,  but  there's  no 
use  in  mentioning  them.  As  for  opinions,  if 
they're  not  pleasant  they'd  better  be  kept  to 
yourself.  I  learned  that  early  in  life  and  forget 
it  every  day. 

I'm  going  to  try  and  think  Michigan  is  a 
grand  place,  and  next  to  Virginia  the  best  to 
live  in.     They  couldn't,  couldn't  expect  me  to 
think  it  was  like  Virginia! 
166 


A   REAL   WEDDING 

Perhaps,  after  a  while,  Uncle  Parke  may  come 
back.  For  over  two  hundred  years  his  people 
have  lived  here,  and  sometimes  I  believe  he 
feels  just  like  that  dog  did  who  had  his  call  in 
him.  The  call  of  the  place  that  the  first  dogs 
came  from,  that  wild,  free  place,  and  I  think 
Uncle  Parke  wants  to  come  back,  wants  to  be 
with  his  own  people. 

Out  West  is  very  convenient,  though,  Peggy 
Green  says.  She  has  an  aunt  who  used  to  live 
out  there,  and  she  told  her  you  could  do  as  you 
choose  in  almost  everything.  If  husbands  and 
wives  didn't  like  each  other,  there  was  no 
trouble  in  getting  new  ones.  They  could  get 
a  divorce  and  marry  somebody  else. 

I  wonder  what  a  divorce  is.  We've  never 
had  one  in  Yorkburg,  and  I  never  knew  until 
the  other  day  that  when  you  got  married  it 
wasn't  really  truly  permanent.  I  thought  it 
was  for  ever  and  ever  and  until  death  parted. 
The  prayer-book  says  so,  and  I  thought  it 
meant  it. 

By  the  time  I'm  grown  I  guess  I'll  find  a  lot 
of  things  are  said  and  not  meant.  Maybe  when 
I  find  out  I  will  be  all  the  gladder  to  come  back 
to  Yorkburg,  where  people  don't  seem  to  know 
much  about  these  new-fashioned  things.  Where 
167 


MARY   GARY 

they  still  believe  in  the  old  ones,  and  just  live 
on  and  don't  hurry,  and  are  kind  and  polite  and 
dear,  if  they  are  slow  and  queer  and  proud  a 
little  bit. 

It  makes  me  have  such  a  funny  feeling  in 
my  throat  when  I  think  about  going  away. 
I'm  trying  not  to  think.  But  I  do.  Think  all 
the  time.  I  want  this  summer  to  be  the  hap 
piest  the  children  ever  had.  It's  the  last  for 
me.  That  sounds  consumptive,  but  I  don't 
mean  that  way.  I  mean  it's  my  last  Orphan 
summer. 

Of  course,  I'm  glad,  awful  glad;  but  I'm  so 
sorry  the  other  children  aren't  going,  too.  For 
them  it's  prunes  and  blue-and-white  calico  to 
look  forward  to  until  they're  eighteen.  Year 
in  and  year  out,  prunes  and  calico. 

But  maybe  it  isn't.  If  Mary  Gary  will  do 
her  part  something  nicer  may  happen.  She 
doesn't  know  yet  the  way  to  make  it  happen, 
having  nothing  much  to  send  back  but  love. 
Somebody  says  love  finds  the  way.  Oh,  Mary 
Gary,  you  and  Love  must  find  a  way! 


THE    END 


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